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1 

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Myths  and  Legends 

of 
Our  Own  Land 

¥ 

Third  Edition 


Charles  M 


Philadelphia  &  London 
^ffl  J.B.Lippincott  Company 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW  BRIDGE 
See  page  48 


Sae^^^jfeS^^^ft  r  4 

fcWJ^^^N»^^^WvVi 


f  Our  Own  Land 


Charles  M.Skinner 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


THESE  VOLUMES, 

BEING    CONCERNED    WITH    AMERICA 
AND    AMERICANS, 

1  Dedicate 

TO    THOSE    STERLING    PATRIOTS, 

MY  CHILDREN. 


preface 

IT  is  unthinkingly  said  and  often,  that  America 
is  not  old  enough  to  have  developed  a  legendary 
era,  for  such  an  era  grows  backward  as  a  nation  grows 
forward.  No  little  of  the  charm  of  European  travel 
is  ascribed  to  the  glamour  that  history  and  fable  have 
flung  around  old  churches,  castles,  and  the  favored 
haunts  of  tourists,  and  the  Rhine  and  Hudson  are  fre- 
quently compared,  to  the  prejudice  of  the  latter,  not 
because  its  scenery  lacks  in  loveliness  or  grandeur, 
but  that  its  beauty  has  not  been  humanized  by  love 
of  chivalry  or  faerie,  as  that  of  the  older  stream  has 
been.  Yet  the  record  of  our  country's  progress 
is  of  deep  import,  and  as  time  goes  on  the  figures 
seen  against  the  morning  twilight  of  our  history  will 
rise  to  more  commanding  stature,  and  the  mists  of 
legend  will  invest  them  with  a  softness  or  glory  that 
shall  make  reverence  for  them  spontaneous  and  deep. 
Washington  hurling  the  stone  across  the  Potomac 
may  live  as  the  Siegfried  of  some  Western  saga,  and 
Franklin  invoking  the  lightnings  may  be  the  Loki 
of  our  mythology.  The  bibliography  of  American 
legends  is  slight,  and  these  tales  have  been  gathered 
from  sources  the  most  diverse :  records,  histories, 
newspapers,  magazines,  oral  narrative — in  every 
case  reconstructed.  The  pursuit  of  them  has  been 
so  long  that  a  claim  may  be  set  forth  for  some 
measure  of  completeness. 
5 


Preface 

But,  whatever  the  episodes  of  our  four  historic 
centuries  may  furnish  to  the  poet,  painter,  dramatist, 
or  legend-building  idealist  of  the  future,  it  is  certain 
that  we  are  not  devoid  of  myth  and  folk-lore. 
Some  characters,  prosaic  enough,  perhaps,  in  daily 
life,  have  impinged  so  lightly  on  society  before  and 
after  perpetrating  their  one  or  two  great  deeds,  that 
they  have  already  become  shadowy  and  their  achieve- 
ments have  acquired  a  color  of  the  supernatural.  It 
is  where  myth  and  history  combine  that  legend  is 
most  interesting  and  appeals  to  our  fancy  or  our 
sympathy  most  strongly ;  and  it  is  not  too  early  for 
us  to  begin  the  collation  of  those  quaint  happenings 
and  those  spoken  reports  that  gain  in  picturesque- 
ness  with  each  transmission.  An  attempt  has  been 
made  in  this  instance  to  assemble  only  legends,  for, 
doubtful  as  some  historians  profess  to  find  them, 
certain  occurrences,  like  the  story  of  Captain  Smith 
and  Pocahontas,  and  the  ride  of  General  Putnam 
down  Breakneck  Stairs,  are  taught  as  history  ;  while 
as  to  folk-lore,  that  of  the  Indian  tribes  and  of  the 
Southern  negro  is  too  copious  to  be  recounted  in  this 
work.  It  will  be  noted  that  traditions  do  not  thrive 
in  brick  and  brownstone,  and  that  the  stories  once 
rife  in  the  colonial  cities  have  almost  as  effectually 
disappeared  as  the  architectural  landmarks  of  last 
century.  The  field  entered  by  the  writer  is  not 
untrodden.  Hawthorne  and  Irving  have  made  paths 
across  it,  and  it  is  hoped  that  others  may  deem  its 
farther  exploration  worthy  of  their  efforts. 
6 


xtf  Volume 


ttbe  WuDson  and  its  Hilts  PAGB 

Rip  Van  Winkle 17 

Catskill  Gnomes 21 

The  Catskill  Witch 22 

The  Revenge  of  Shandaken 24 

Condemned  to  the  Noose 25 

Big  Indian 28 

The  Baker's  Dozen 29 

The  Devil's  Dance-Chamber 31 

The  Culprit  Fay •     33 

Pokepsie 35 

Dunderberg 37 

Anthony's  Nose 38 

Moodua  Creek 40 

A  Trapper's  Ghastly  Vengeance 41 

The  Vanderdecken  of  Tappan  Zee 46 

The  Galloping  Hessian 47 

Storm  Ship  on  the  Hudson      49 

Why  Spuyten  Duyvil  is  so  Named      51 

The  Ramapo  Salamander 53 

Chief  Croton 57 

The  Retreat  from  Mahopac 58 

Niagara 61 

The  Deformed  of  Zoar 63 

Horseheads 65 

Kayuta  and  Waneta 66 

The  Drop  Star 69 

The  Prophet  of  Palmyra 71 

A  Villain's  Cremation 73 

7 


Contents  of  Volume  I 
Sales  of  puritan  XanD— (Continued)  PAGB 

The  Owl  Tree 205 

A  Chestnut  Log 207 

The  Watcher  on  White  Island 208 

Chocorua 210 

Passaconaway's  Ride  to  Heaven 212 

The  Ball  Game  by  the  Saco 214 

The  White  Mountains 215 

The  Vision  on  Mount  Adams 220 

The  Great  Carbuncle 222 

Skinner's  Cave 223 

Yet  they  call  it  Lover's  Leap 225 

Salem  and  other  Witchcraft 226 

The  Gloucester  Leaguers 238 

Satan  and  his  Burial-Place 241 

Peter  Rugg,  the  Missing  Man 244 

The  Loss  of  Weetamoo 246 

The  Fatal  Forget-me-not 248 

The  Old  Mill  at  Somerville 249 

Edward  Randolph's  Portrait 251 

Lady  Eleanore's  Mantle 253 

Howe's  Masquerade 256 

Old  Esther  Dudley 259 

The  Loss  of  Jacob  Hurd 262 

The  Hobomak 263 

Berkshire  Tories 265 

The  Revenge  of  Josiah  Breeze 269 

The  May-Pole  of  Merrymount 273 

The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker 275 

The  Gray  Champion 279 

The  Forest  Smithy 282 

Wahconah  Falls 284 

Knocking  at  the  Tomb 287 

The  White  Deer  of  Onota 288 

Wizard's  Glen 291 

10 


Contents  of  Volume  I 

Gales  of  fturttan  OLanD— (ContinucD)  PAGH 

Balanced  Rock 293 

Shonkeek-Moonkeek       294 

The  Salem  Alchemist 296 

Eliza  Wharton 299 

Sale  of  the  Southwicks 300 

The  Courtship  of  Myles  Standish 302 

Mother  Crewe 3°4 

Aunt  Rachel's  Curse 306 

Nix's  Mate 308 

The  Wild  Man  of  Cape  Cod 309 

Newbury's  Old  Elm 310 

Samuel  Se wall's  Prophecy 311 

The  Shrieking  Woman 313 

Agnes  Surriage 314 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride 316 

Heartbreak  Hill 317 


^lustrations 

Uclumc  1 

SLEEPY  HOLLOW  BRIDGE Frontispiece 

CHEW  HOUSE,  GERMANTOWN Page    152 

SURF,  MASSACHUSETTS  BAY "       234 

NEAR    SITE    OF    FOUNTAIN    INN,    MARBLEHEAD, 

MASSACHUSETTS "       314 


Cbe 


nun  its 

¥ 


antr  its 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE 

r  I  "HE  story  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  told  by  Irving, 
A  dramatized  by  Boucicault,  acted  by  Jefferson, 
pictured  by  Darley,  set  to  music  by  Bristow,  is  the 
best  known  of  American  legends.  Rip  was  a 
real  personage,  and  the  Van  Winkles  are  a  con- 
siderable family  at  this  day.  An  idle,  good-natured, 
happy-go-lucky  fellow,  he  lived,  presumably,  in  the 
village  of  Catskill,  and  began  his  long  sleep  in 
1769.  His  wife  was  a  shrew,  and  to  escape  her 
abuse  Rip  often  took  his  dog  and  gun  and  roamed 
away  to  the  Catskills,  nine  miles  westward,  where 
he  lounged  or  hunted,  as  the  humor  seized  him.  It 
was  on  a  September  evening,  during  a  jaunt  on  South 
Mountain,  that  he  met  a  stubby,  silent  man,  of 
goodly  girth,  his  round  head  topped  with  a  steeple 
hat,  the  skirts  of  his  belted  coat  and  flaps  of  his 
petticoat  trousers  meeting  at  the  tops  of  heavy  boots, 
and  the  face — ugh  ! — green  and  ghastly,  with  un- 
moving  eyes  that  glimmered  in  the  twilight  like 
phosphorus.  The  dwarf  carried  a  keg,  and  on  re- 
ceiving an  intimation,  in  a  sign,  that  he  would  like 
Rip  to  relieve  him  of  it,  that  cheerful  vagabond 
shouldered  it  and  marched  on  up  the  mountain. 
2  17 


Myths  and  Legends 

At  nightfall  they  emerged  on  a  little  plateau  where 
a  score  of  men  in  the  garb  of  long  ago,  with  faces  like 
that  of  Rip's  guide,  and  equally  still  and  speechless, 
were  playing  bowls  with  great  solemnity,  the  balls 
sometimes  rolling  over  the  plateau's  edge  and  rum- 
bling down  the  rocks  with  a  boom  like  thunder. 
A  cloaked  and  snowy-bearded  figure,  watching  aloof, 
turned  like  the  others,  and  gazed  uncomfortably  at 
the  visitor  who  now  came  blundering  in  among 
them.  Rip  was  at  first  for  making  off,  but  the  sin- 
ister glare  in  the  circle  of  eyes  took  the  run  out  of 
his  legs,  and  he  was  not  displeased  when  they  signed 
to  him  to  tap  the  keg  and  join  in  a  draught  of  the 
ripest  schnapps  that  ever  he  had  tasted, — and  he 
knew  the  flavor  of  every  brand  in  Catskill.  While 
these  strange  men  grew  no  more  genial  with  pass- 
ing of  the  flagons,  Rip  was  pervaded  by  a  satisfying 
glow ;  then,  overcome  by  sleepiness  and  resting  his 
head  on  a  stone,  he  stretched  his  tired  legs  out  and 
fell  to  dreaming. 

Morning.  Sunlight  and  leaf  shadow  were  dap- 
pled over  the  earth  when  he  awoke,  and  rising 
stiffly  from  his  bed,  with  compunctions  in  his  bones, 
he  reached  for  his  gun.  The  already  venerable  im- 
plement was  so  far  gone  with  rot  and  rust  that  it 
fell  to  pieces  in  his  hand,  and  looking  down  at  the 
fragments  of  it,  he  saw  that  his  clothes  were  drop- 
ping from  his  body  in  rags  and  mould,  while  a  white 
beard  flowed  over  his  breast.  Puzzled  and  alarmed, 
shaking  his  head  ruefully  as  he  recalled  the  carouse 
ll 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

of  the  silent,  he  hobbled  down  the  mountain  as  fast 
as  he  might  for  the  grip  of  the  rheumatism  on  his 
knees  and  elbows,  and  entered  his  native  village. 
What !  Was  this  Catskill  ?  Was  this  the  place 
that  he  left  yesterday  ?  Had  all  these  houses  sprung 
up  overnight,  and  these  streets  been  pushed  across  the 
meadows  in  a  day  ?  The  people,  too  :  where  were 
his  friends  ?  The  children  who  had  romped  with 
him,  the  rotund  topers  whom  he  had  left  cooling 
their  hot  noses  in  pewter  pots  at  the  tavern  door, 
the  dogs  that  used  to  bark  a  welcome,  recognizing  in 
him  a  kindred  spirit  of  vagrancy  :  where  were  they? 
And  his  wife,  whose  athletic  arm  and  agile  tongue 
had  half  disposed  him  to  linger  in  the  mountains : 
how  happened  it  that  she  was  not  awaiting  him  at 
the  gate  ?  But  gate  there  was  none  in  the  familiar 
place :  an  unfenced  yard  of  weeds  and  ruined  foun- 
dation wall  were  there.  Rip's  home  was  gone. 
The  idlers  jeered  at  his  bent,  lean  form,  his  snarl 
of  beard  and  hair,  his  disreputable  dress,  his  look  of 
grieved  astonishment.  He  stopped,  instinctively,  at 
the  tavern,  for  he  knew  that  place  in  spite  of  its 
new  sign :  an  officer  in  blue  regimentals  and  a 
cocked  hat  replacing  the  crimson  George  III.  of  his 
recollection,  and  labelled  "  General  Washington." 
There  was  a  quick  gathering  of  ne'er-do-weels,  of 
tavern-haunters  and  gaping  'prentices,  about  him, 
and  though  their  faces  were  strange  and  their  man- 
ners rude,  he  made  bold  to  ask  if  they  knew  such 
and  such  of  his  friends. 

'9 


Myths  and  Legends 

"  Nick  Vedder  ?  He's  dead  and  gone  these  eigh- 
teen years."  "  Brom  Dutcher  ?  He  joined  the  army 
and  was  killed  at  Stony  Point."  "  Van  Brummel  ? 
He,  too,  went  to  the  war,  and  is  in  Congress  now." 

"  And  Rip  Van  Winkle  ?" 

"  Yes,  he's  here.     That's  him  yonder." 

And  to  Rip's  utter  confusion  he  saw  before  him  a 
counterpart  of  himself,  as  young,  lazy,  ragged,  and 
easy-natured  as  he  remembered  himself  to  be,  yester- 
day— or,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

"  That's  young  Rip,"  continued  his  informer. 
"  His  father  was  Rip  Van  Winkle,  too,  but  he  went 
to  the  mountains  twenty  years  ago  and  never  came 
back.  He  probably  fell  over  a  cliff,  or  was  carried 
off  by  Indians,  or  eaten  by  bears." 

Twenty  years  ago !  Truly,  it  was  so.  Rip  had 
slept  for  twenty  years  without  awaking.  He  had 
left  a  peaceful  colonial  village ;  he  returned  to  a 
bustling  republican  town.  How  he  eventually  found, 
among  the  oldest  inhabitants,  some  who  admitted 
that  they  knew  him ;  how  he  found  a  comfortable 
home  with  his  married  daughter  and  the  son  who 
took  after  him  so  kindly ;  how  he  recovered  from 
the  effect  of  the  tidings  that  his  wife  had  died  of 
apoplexy,  in  a  quarrel ;  how  he  resumed  his  seat  at 
the  tavern  tap  and  smoked  long  pipes  and  told  long 
yarns  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  were  matters  of  record 
up  to  the  beginning  of  this  century. 

And  a  strange  story  Rip  had  to  tell,  for  he  had 
served  as  cup-bearer  to  the  dead  crew  of  the  Half 
20 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

Moon.  He  had  quaffed  a  cup  of  Hollands  with  no 
other  than  Henry  Hudson  himself.  Some  say  that 
Hudson's  spirit  has  made  its  home  amid  these  hills, 
that  it  may  look  into  the  lovely  valley  that  he  dis- 
covered ;  but  others  hold  that  every  twenty  years  he 
and  his  men  assemble  for  a  revel  in  the  mountains 
that  so  charmed  them  when  first  seen  swelling  against 
the  western  heavens,  and  the  liquor  they  drink  on 
this  night  has  the  bane  of  throwing  any  mortal  who 
lips  it  into  a  slumber  whence  nothing  can  arouse  him 
until  the  day  dawns  when  the  crew  shall  meet  again. 
As  you  climb  the  east  front  of  the  mountains  by  the 
old  carriage  road,  you  pass,  half-way  up  the  height, 
the  stone  that  Rip  Van  Winkle  slept  on,  and  may  see 
that  it  is  slightly  hollowed  by  his  form.  The  ghostly 
revellers  are  due  in  the  Catskills  in  1909,  and  let  all 
tourists  who  are  among  the  mountains  in  September 
of  that  year  beware  of  accepting  liquor  from  strangers. 

CATSKILL   GNOMES 

BEHIND  the  New  Grand  Hotel,  in  the  Catskills, 
is  an  amphitheatre  of  mountain  that  is  held  to 
be  the  place  of  which  the  Mohicans  spoke  when  they 
told  of  people  there  who  worked  in  metals,  and  had 
bushy  beards  and  eyes  like  pigs.  From  the  smoke 
of  their  forges,  in  autumn,  came  the  haze  of  Indian 
summer;  and  when  the  moon  was  full,  it  was  their 
custom  to  assemble  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  above 
the  hollow  and  dance  and  caper  until  the  night  was 


Myths  and  Legends 

nigh  worn  away.  They  brewed  a  liquor  that  had 
the  effect  of  shortening  the  bodies  and  swelling  the 
heads  of  all  who  drank  it,  and  when  Hudsoa  and 
his  crew  visited  the  mountains,  the  pygmies  held  a 
carouse  in  his  honor  and  invited  him  to  drink  their 
liquor.  The  crew  went  away,  shrunken  and  dis- 
torted by  the  magic  distillation,  and  thus  it  was  that 
Rip  Van  Winkle  found  them  on  the  eve  of  his 
famous  sleep. 

THE   CATSKILL   WITCH 

WHEN  the  Dutch  gave  the  name  of  Katzbergs 
to  the  mountains  west  of  the  Hudson,  by 
reason  of  the  wild-cats  and  panthers  that  ranged 
there,  they  obliterated  the  beautiful  Indian  Ontiora, 
"  mountains  of  the  sky."  In  one  tradition  of  the 
red  men  these  hills  were  bones  of  a  monster  that  fed 
on  human  beings  until  the  Great  Spirit  turned  it  into 
stone  as  it  was  floundering  toward  the  ocean  to  bathe. 
The  two  lakes  near  the  summit  were  its  eyes.  These 
peaks  were  the  home  of  an  Indian  witch,  who  ad- 
justed the  weather  for  the  Hudson  Valley  with  the 
certainty  of  a  signal  service  bureau.  It  was  she 
who  let  out  the  day  and  night  in  blessed  alternation, 
holding  back  the  one  when  the  other  was  at  large, 
for  fear  of  conflict.  Old  moons  she  cut  into  stars  as 
soon  as  she  had  hung  new  ones  in  the  sky,  and  she 
was  often  seen  perched  on  Round  Top  and  North 
Mountain,  spinning  clouds  and  flinging  them  to  the 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

winds.  Woe  betide  the  valley  residents  if  they 
showed  irreverence,  for  then  the  clouds  were  black 
and  heavy,  and  through  them  she  poured  floods  of 
rain  and  launched  the  lightnings,  causing  disastrous 
freshets  in  the  streams  and  blasting  the  wigwams  of 
the  mockers.  In  a  frolic  humor  she  would  take  the 
form  of  a  bear  or  deer  and  lead  the  Indian  hunters 
anything  but  a  merry  dance,  exposing  them  to  tire 
and  peril,  and  vanishing  or  assuming  some  terrible 
shape  when  they  had  overtaken  her.  Sometimes  she 
would  lead  them  to  the  cloves  and  would  leap  into 
the  air  with  a  mocking  "  Ho,  ho  !"  just  as  they 
stopped  with  a  shudder  at  the  brink  of  an  abyss. 
Garden  Rock  was  a  spot  where  she  was  often  found, 
and  at  its  foot  a  lake  once  spread.  This  was  held 
in  such  awe  that  an  Indian  would  never  wittingly 
pursue  his  quarry  there  ;  but  once  a  hunter  lost  his 
way  and  emerged  from  the  forest  at  the  edge  of  the 
pond.  Seeing  a  number  of  gourds  in  crotches  of  the 
trees  he  took  one,  but  fearing  the  spirit  he  turned  to 
leave  so  quickly  that  he  stumbled  and  it  fell.  As  it 
broke,  a  spring  welled  from  it  in  such  volume  that  the 
unhappy  man  was  gulfed  in  its  waters,  swept  to  the 
edge  of  Kaaterskill  clove  and  dashed  on  the  rocks 
two  hundred  and  sixty  feet  below.  Nor  did  the 
water  ever  cease  to  run,  and  in  these  times  the 
stream  born  of  the  witch's  revenge  is  known  as 
Catskill  Creek. 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   REVENGE   OF   SHANDAKEN 

ON  the  rock  platform  where  the  Catskill  Moun- 
tain House  now  stands,  commanding  one  of 
the  fairest  views  in  the  world,  old  chief  Shandaken 
set  his  wigwam, — for  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
barbarians  are  indifferent  to  beauty, — and  there  his 
daughter,  Lotowana,  was  sought  in  marriage  by  his 
braves.  She,  however,  kept  faith  to  an  early  vow 
exchanged  with  a  young  chief  of  the  Mohawks.  A 
suitor  who  was  particularly  troublesome  was  Norse- 
reddin,  proud,  morose,  dark-featured,  a  stranger  to 
the  red  man,  a  descendant,  so  he  claimed,  from 
Egyptian  kings,  and  who  lived  by  himself  on  Kaa- 
terskill  Creek,  appearing  among  white  settlements 
but  rarely. 

On  one  of  his  visits  to  Catskill,  a  tavern-lounging 
Dutchman  wagered  him  a  thousand  golden  crowns 
that  he  could  not  win  Lotowana,  and,  stung  by 
avarice  as  well  as  inflamed  by  passion,  Norsereddin 
laid  new  siege  to  her  heart.  Still  the  girl  refused  to 
listen,  and  Shandaken  counselled  him  to  be  content 
with  the  smiles  of  others,  thereby  so  angering  the 
Egyptian  that  he  assailed  the  chief  and  was  driven 
from  the  camp  with  blows ;  but  on  the  day  of 
Lotowana's  wedding  with  the  Mohawk  he  returned, 
and  in  a  honeyed  speech  asked  leave  to  give  a  jewel 
to  the  bride  to  show  that  he  had  stifled  jealousy  and 
ill  will.  The  girl  took  the  handsome  box  he  gave 
her  and  drew  the  cover,  when  a  spring  flew  forward, 
24 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

driving  into  her  hand  the  poisoned  tooth  of  a  snake 
that  had  been  affixed  to  it.  The  venom  was  strong, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Lotowana  lay  dead  at  her 
husband's  feet. 

Though  the  Egyptian  had  disappeared  into  the 
forest  directly  on  the  acceptance  of  his  treacherous 
gift,  twenty  braves  set  off  in  pursuit,  and  overtaking 
him  on  the  Kalkberg,  they  dragged  him  back  to  the 
rock  where  father  and  husband  were  bewailing  the 
maid's  untimely  fate.  A  pile  of  fagots  was  heaped 
within  a  few  feet  of  the  precipice  edge,  and  tying 
their  captive  on  them,  they  applied  the  torch,  dan- 
cing about  with  cries  of  exultation  as  the  shrieks  of 
the  wretch  echoed  from  the  cliffs.  The  dead  girl 
was  buried  by  the  mourning  tribe,  while  the  ashes 
of  Norsereddin  were  left  to  be  blown  abroad.  On 
the  day  of  his  revenge  Shandaken  left  his  ancient 
dwelling-place,  and  his  camp-fires  never  glimmered 
afterward  on  the  front  of  Ontiora. 


CONDEMNED   TO   THE   NOOSE 

RALPH  SUTHERLAND,  who,  early  in  the 
last  century,  occupied  a  stone  house  a  mile 
from  Leeds,  in  the  Catskills,  was  a  man  of  morose 
and  violent  disposition,  whose  servant,  a  Scotch  girl, 
was  virtually  a  slave,  inasmuch  as  she  was  bound  to 
work  for  him  without  pay  until  she  had  refunded  to 
him  her  passage-money  to  this  country.  Becoming 
weary  of  bondage  and  of  the  tempers  of  her  mas- 


Myths  and  Legends 

ter,  the  girl  ran  away.  The  man  set  off  in  a  raging 
chase,  and  she  had  not  gone  far  before  Sutherland 
overtook  her,  tied  her  by  the  wrists  to  his  horse's 
tail,  and  began  the  homeward  journey.  Afterward, 
he  swore  that  the  girl  stumbled  against  the  horse's 
legs,  so  frightening  the  animal  that  it  rushed  off 
madly,  pitching  him  out  of  the  saddle  and  dash- 
ing the  servant  to  death  on  rocks  and  trees ;  yet, 
knowing  how  ugly-tempered  he  could  be,  his  neigh- 
bors were  better  inclined  to  believe  that  he  had 
driven  the  horse  into  a  gallop,  intending  to  drag  the 
girl  for  a  short  distance,  as  a  punishment,  and  to 
rein  up  before  he  had  done  serious  mischief.  On 
this  supposition  he  was  arrested,  tried,  and  sentenced 
to  die  on  the  scaffold. 

The  tricks  of  circumstantial  evidence,  together 
with  pleas  advanced  by  influential  relatives  of  the 
prisoner,  induced  the  court  to  delay  sentence  until 
the  culprit  should  be  ninety-nine  years  old,  but  it 
was  ordered  that,  while  released  on  his  own  recog- 
nizance, in  the  interim,  he  should  keep  a  hangman's 
noose  about  his  neck  and  show  himself  before  the 
judges  in  Catskill  once  every  year,  to  prove  that  he 
wore  his  badge  of  infamy  and  kept  his  crime  in 
mind.  This  sentence  he  obeyed,  and  there  were 
people  living  recently  who  claimed  to  remember 
him  as  he  went  about  with  a  silken  cord  knotted  at 
his  throat.  He  was  always  alone,  he  seldom  spoke, 
his  rough,  imperious  manner  had  departed.  Only 
when  children  asked  him  what  the  rope  was  for 
26 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

were  his  lips  seen  to  quiver,  and  then  he  would 
hurry  away.  After  dark  his  house  was  avoided,  for 
gossips  said  that  a  shrieking  woman  passed  it  nightly, 
tied  at  the  tail  of  a  giant  horse  with  fiery  eyes  and 
smoking  nostrils ;  that  a  skeleton  in  a  winding  sheet 
had  been  found  there ;  that  a  curious  thing,  some- 
what like  a  woman,  had  been  known  to  sit  on  his 
garden  wall,  with  lights  shining  from  her  finger-tips, 
uttering  unearthly  laughter ;  and  that  domestic  ani- 
mals reproached  the  man  by  groaning  and  howling 
beneath  his  windows. 

These  beliefs  he  knew,  yet  he  neither  grieved, 
nor  scorned,  nor  answered  when  he  was  told  of 
them.  Years  sped  on.  Every  year  deepened  his 
reserve  and  loneliness,  and  some  began  to  whisper 
that  he  would  take  his  own  way  out  of  the  world, 
though  others  answered  that  men  who  were  born  to 
be  hanged  would  never  be  drowned ;  but  a  new 
republic  was  created ;  new  laws  were  made ;  new 
judges  sat  to  minister  them ;  so,  on  Ralph  Suther- 
land's ninety-ninth  birthday  anniversary,  there  were 
none  who  would  accuse  him  or  execute  sentence. 
He  lived  yet  another  year,  dying  in  1801.  But  was 
it  from  habit,  or  was  it  in  self-punishment  and  re- 
morse, that  he  never  took  off  the  cord  ?  for,  when 
he  drew  his  last  breath,  though  it  was  in  his  own 
house,  his  throat  was  still  encircled  by  the  hangman's 
rope. 


Myths  and  Legends 

BIG  INDIAN 

INTERMARRIAGES  between  white  people  and 
red  ones  in  this  country  were  not  uncommon  in 
the  days  when  our  ancestors  led  as  rude  a  life  as  the 
natives,  and  several  places  in  the  Catskills  commem- 
orate this  fact.  Mount  Utsayantha,  for  example,  is 
named  for  an  Indian  woman  whose  life,  with  that  of 
her  baby  and  her  white  husband,  was  lost  there.  For 
the  white  men  early  found  friends  among  these  moun- 
tains. As  far  back  as  1663  they  spared  Catherine 
Dubois  and  her  three  children,  after  some  rash  spirits 
had  abducted  them  and  carried  them  to  a  place  on 
the  upper  Walkill,  to  do  them  to  death  ;  for  the  cap- 
tives raised  a  Huguenot  hymn  and  the  hearts  of  their 
captors  were  softened. 

In  Esopus  Valley  lived  Winnisook,  whose  height 
was  seven  feet,  and  who  was  known  among  the  white 
settlers  as  "  the  big  Indian."  He  loved  a  white  girl 
of  the  neighborhood,  one  Gertrude  Molyneux,  and 
had  asked  for  her  hand ;  but  while  she  was  willing, 
the  objections  of  her  family  were  too  strong  to  be 
overcome,  and  she  was  teased  into  marriage  with 
Joseph  Bundy,  of  her  own  race,  instead.  She  liked 
the  Indian  all  the  better  after  that,  however,  because 
Bundy  proved  to  be  a  bad  fellow,  and  believing  that 
she  could  be  happier  among  barbarians  than  among 
a  people  that  approved  such  marriages,  she  eloped 
with  Winnisook.  For  a  long  time  all  trace  of  the 
runaway  couple  was  lost,  but  one  day  the  man  having 
28 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

gone  down  to  the  plain  to  steal  cattle,  it  was  alleged, 
was  discovered  by  some  farmers  who  knew  him,  and 
who  gave  hot  chase,  coming  up  with  him  at  the  place 
now  called  Big  Indian. 

Foremost  in  the  chase  was  Bundy.  As  he  came 
near  to  the  enemy  of  his  peace  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
think  the  best  way  to  civilize  that  yellow  serpent  is 
to  let  daylight  into  his  heart,"  and,  drawing  his  rifle 
to  his  shoulder,  he  fired.  Mortally  wounded,  yet  in- 
stinctively seeking  refuge,  the  giant  staggered  into 
the  hollow  of  a  pine-tree,  where  the  farmers  lost 
sight  of  him.  There,  however,  he  was  found  by 
Gertrude,  bolt  upright,  yet  dead.  The  unwedded 
widow  brought  her  dusky  children  to  the  place  and 
spent  the  remainder  of  her  days  near  his  grave. 
Until  a  few  years  ago  the  tree  was  still  pointed  out, 
but  a  railroad  company  has  now  covered  it  with  an 
embankment. 


THE   BAKER'S   DOZEN 

BAAS  [BOSS]  VOLCKERT  JAN  PIETER- 
SEN  VAN  AMSTERDAM  kept  a  bake-shop 
in  Albany,  and  lives  in  history  as  the  man  who  in- 
vented New  Year  cakes  and  made  gingerbread  babies 
in  the  likeness  of  his  own  fat  offspring.    Good  church- 
man though  he  was,  the  bane  of  his  life  was  a  fear 
of  being  bewitched,  and  perhaps  it  was  to  keep  out 
evil  spirits,  who  might  make  one  last  effort  to  gain  the 
mastery  over  him,  ere  he  turned  the  customary  leaf 
29 


Myths  and  Legends 

with  the  incoming  year,  that  he  had  primed  himself 
with  an  extra  glass  of  spirits  on  the  last  night  of  1654. 
His  sales  had  been  brisk,  and  as  he  sat  in  his  little 
shop,  meditating  comfortably  on  the  gains  he  would 
make  when  his  harmless  rivals — the  knikkerbakkers 
(bakers  of  marbles) — sent  for  their  usual  supply  of 
olie-koeks  and  mince-pies  on  the  morrow,  he  was 
startled  by  a  sharp  rap,  and  an  ugly  old  woman  en- 
tered. "  Give  me  a  dozen  New  Year's  cookies  !" 
she  cried,  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"  Veil,  den,  you  needn'  sbeak  so  loud.  I  aind 
teaf,  den." 

"  A  dozen  !"  she  screamed.  "  Give  me  a  dozen. 
Here  are  only  twelve." 

"  Veil,  den,  dwalf  is  a  dozen." 

"  One  more  !     I  want  a  dozen." 

"  Veil,  den,  if  you  vant  anodder,  go  to  de  duyvil 
and  ged  it." 

Did  the  hag  take  him  at  his  word  ?  She  left  the 
shop,  and  from  that  time  it  seemed  as  if  poor 
Volckert  was  bewitched,  indeed,  for  his  cakes  were 
stolen ;  his  bread  was  so  light  that  it  went  up  the 
chimney,  when  it  was  not  so  heavy  that  it  fell 
through  the  oven ;  invisible  hands  plucked  bricks 
from  that  same  oven  and  pelted  him  until  he  was 
blue ;  his  wife  became  deaf,  his  children  went  un- 
kempt, and  his  trade  went  elsewhere.  Thrice  the 
old  woman  reappeared,  and  each  time  was  sent  anew 
to  the  devil ;  but  at  last,  in  despair,  che  baker  called 
on  Saint  Nicolaus  to  come  and  advise  him.  His  call 
30 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

was  answered  with  startling  quickness,  for,  almost 
while  he  was  making  it,  the  venerable  patron  of 
Dutch  feasts  stood  before  him.  The  good  soul  ad- 
vised the  trembling  man  to  be  more  generous  in  his 
dealings  with  his  fellows,  and  after  a  lecture  on 
charity  he  vanished,  when,  lo !  the  old  woman  was 
there  in  his  place. 

She  repeated  her  demand  for  one  more  cake,  and 
Volckert  Jan  Pietersen,  etc.,  gave  it,  whereupon  she 
exclaimed,  "  The  spell  is  broken,  and  from  this 
time  a  dozen  is  thirteen  !"  Taking  from  the  counter 
a  gingerbread  effigy  of  Saint  Nicolaus,  she  made  the 
astonished  Dutchman  lay  his  hand  upon  it  and  swear 
to  give  more  liberal  measure  in  the  future.  So,  until 
thirteen  new  States  arose  from  the  ruins  of  the  colo- 
nies,— when  the  shrewd  Yankees  restored  the  original 
measure, — thirteen  made  a  baker's  dozen. 


THE   DEVIL'S   DANCE-CHAMBER. 

MOST  storied  of  our  New  World  rivers  is  the 
Hudson.  Historic  scenes  have  been  enacted 
on  its  shores,  and  Indian,  Dutchman,  Briton,  and 
American  have  invested  it  with  romance.  It  had 
its  source,  in  the  red  man's  fancy,  in  a  spring  of 
eternal  youth ;  giants  and  spirits  dwelt  in  its  woods 
and  hills,  and  before  the  river — Shatemuc,  king 
of  streams,  the  red  men  called  it — had  broken 
through  the  highlands,  those  mountains  were  a  pent 
for  spirits  who  had  rebelled  against  the  Manitou. 
31 


Myths  and  Legends 

After  the  waters  had  forced  a  passage  to  the  sea  these 
evil  ones  sought  shelter  in  the  glens  and  valleys  that 
open  to  right  and  left  along  its  course,  but  in  time 
of  tempest,  when  they  hear  Manitou  riding  down 
the  ravine  on  wings  of  storm,  dashing  thunderbolts 
against  the  cliffs,  it  is  the  fear  that  he  will  recapture 
them  and  force  them  into  lightless  caverns  to  ex- 
piate their  revolt,  that  sends  them  huddling  among 
the  rocks  and  makes  the  hills  resound  with  roars  and 
howls. 

At  the  Devil's  Dance-Chamber,  a  slight  plateau  on 
the  west  bank,  between  Newburg  and  Crom  Elbow, 
the  red  men  performed  semi-religious  rites  as  a 
preface  to  their  hunting  and  fishing  trips  or  ventures 
on  the  war-path.  They  built  a  fire,  painted  them- 
selves, and  in  that  frenzy  into  which  savages  are  so 
readily  lashed,  and  that  is  so  like  to  the  action  of 
mobs  in  trousers,  they  tumbled,  leaped,  danced, 
yelled,  sang,  grimaced,  and  gesticulated  until  the 
Manitou  disclosed  himself,  either  as  a  harmless  ani- 
mal or  a  beast  of  prey.  If  he  came  in  the  former 
shape  the  augury  was  favorable,  but  if  he  showed 
himself  as  a  bear  or  panther,  it  was  a  warning  of  evil 
that  they  seldom  dared  to  disregard. 

The  crew  of  Hudson's  ship,  the  Half  Moon, 
having  chanced  on  one  of  these  orgies,  were  so 
impressed  by  the  fantastic  spectacle  that  they  gave 
the  name  Duyvels  Dans-Kamer  to  the  spot.  Years 
afterwards,  when  Stuyvesant  ascended  the  river,  his 
doughty  retainers  were  horrified,  on  landing  below 
32 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

the  Dans-Kamer,  to  discover  hundreds  of  painted 
figures  frisking  there  in  the  fire-light.  A  few  sur- 
mised that  they  were  but  a  new  generation  of  sav- 
ages holding  a  powwow,  but  most  of  the  sailors 
fancied  that  the  assemblage  was  demoniac,  and  that 
the  figures  were  spirits  of  bad  Indians  repeating  a 
scalp-dance  and  revelling  in  the  mysterious  fire-water 
that  they  had  brought  down  from  the  river  source 
in  jars  and  skins.  The  spot  was  at  least  once  pro- 
faned with  blood,  for  a  young  Dutchman  and  his 
wife,  of  Albany,  were  captured  here  by  an  angry 
Indian,  and  although  the  young  man  succeeded  in 
stabbing  his  captor  to  death,  he  was  burned  alive  on 
the  rock  by  the  friends  of  the  Indian  whose  wrath 
he  had  provoked.  The  wife,  after  being  kept  in 
captivity  for  a  time,  was  ransomed. 

THE   CULPRIT   FAY 

THE  wood-tick's  drum  convokes  the  elves  at  the 
noon  of  night  on  Cro'  Nest  top,  and,  clam- 
bering out  of  their  flower-cup  beds  and  hammocks  of 
cobweb,  they  fly  to  the  meeting,  not  to  freak  about  the 
grass  or  banquet  at  the  mushroom  table,  but  to  hear 
sentence  passed  on  the  fay  who,  forgetting  his  vestal 
vow,  has  loved  an  earthly  maid.  From  his  throne 
under  a  canopy  of  tulip  petals,  borne  on  pillars  of 
shell,  the  king  commands  silence,  and  with  severe 
eye  but  softened  voice  he  tells  the  culprit  that  while 
he  has  scorned  the  royal  decree  he  has  saved  himself 
3  33 


Myths  and  Legends 

from  the  extreme  penalty,  of  imprisonment  in  wal- 
nut shells  and  cobweb  dungeons,  by  loving  a  maid 
who  is  gentle  and  pure.  So  it  shall  be  enough  if  he 
will  go  down  to  the  Hudson  and  seize  a  drop  from 
the  bow  of  mist  that  a  sturgeon  leaves  when  he 
makes  his  leap ;  and  after,  to  kindle  his  darkened 
flame-wood  lamp  at  a  meteor  spark.  The  fairy 
bows,  and  without  a  word  slowly  descends  the  rocky 
steep,  for  his  wing  is  soiled  and  has  lost  its  power ; 
but  once  at  the  river,  he  tugs  amain  at  a  mussel  shell 
till  he  has  it  afloat ;  then,  leaping  in,  he  paddles 
out  with  a  strong  grass  blade  till  he  comes  to  the 
spot  where  the  sturgeon  swims,  though  the  water- 
sprites  plague  him  and  toss  his  boat,  and  the  fish 
and  the  leeches  bunt  and  drag ;  but,  suddenly,  the 
sturgeon  shoots  from  the  water,  and  ere  the  arch  of 
mist  that  he  tracks  through  the  air  has  vanished,  the 
sprite  has  caught  a  drop  of  the  spray  in  a  tiny  blos- 
som, and  in  this  he  washes  clean  his  wings. 

The  water-goblins  torment  him  no  longer.  They 
push  his  boat  to  the  shore,  where,  alighting,  he 
kisses  his  hand,  then,  even  as  a  bubble,  he  flies  back 
to  the  mountain  top,  dons  his  acorn  helmet,  his 
corselet  of  bee-hide,  his  shield  of  lady-bug  shell, 
and  grasping  his  lance,  tipped  with  wasp  sting,  he  be- 
strides his  fire-fly  steed  and  off  he  goes  like  a  flash. 
The  world  spreads  out  and  then  grows  small,  but  he 
flies  straight  on.  The  ice-ghosts  leer  from  the  top- 
most clouds,  and  the  mists  surge  round,  but  he 
shakes  his  lance  and  pipes  his  call,  and  at  last  he 
34 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

comes  to  the  Milky  Way,  where  the  sky-sylphs 
lead  him  to  their  queen,  who  lies  couched  in  a 
palace  ceiled  with  stars,  its  dome  held  up  by  north- 
ern lights  and  the  curtains  made  of  the  morning's 
flush.  Her  mantle  is  twilight  purple,  tied  with 
threads  of  gold  from  the  eastern  dawn,  and  her  face 
is  as  fair  as  the  silver  moon. 

She  begs  the  fay  to  stay  with  her  and  taste  forever 
the  joys  of  heaven,  but  the  knightly  elf  keeps  down 
the  beating  of  his  heart,  for  he  remembers  a  face  on 
earth  that  is  fairer  than  hers,  and  he  begs  to  go. 
With  a  sigh  she  fits  him  a  car  of  cloud,  with  the 
fire-fly  steed  chained  on  behind,  and  he  hurries 
away  to  the  northern  sky  whence  the  meteor  comes, 
with  roar  and  whirl,  and  as  it  passes  it  bursts  to 
flame.  He  lights  his  lamp  at  a  glowing  spark,  then 
wheels  away  to  the  fairy-land.  His  king  and  his 
brothers  hail  him  stoutly,  with  song  and  shout,  and 
feast  and  dance,  and  the  revel  is  kept  till  the  eastern 
sky  has  a  ruddy  streak.  Then  the  cock  crows  shrill 
and  the  fays  are  gone. 

POKEPSIE 

THE  name  of  this  town  has  forty-two  spellings 
in  old  records,  and  with  singular  pertinacity 
in  ill-doing,  the  inhabitants  have  fastened  on  it  the 
longest  and    clumsiest  of  all.     It   comes  from  the 
Mohegan    words    Apo-keep-sink,  meaning    a    safe, 
pleasant    harbor.     Harbor  it  might  be  for    canoes, 
35 


Myths  and  Legends 

but  for  nothing  bigger,  for  it  was  only  the  little 
cove  that  was  so  called  between  Call  Rock  and 
Adder  Cliff, — the  former  indicating  where  settlers 
awaiting  passage  hailed  the  masters  of  vessels  from 
its  top,  and  the  latter  taking  its  name  from  the  snakes 
that  abounded  there. 

Hither  came  a  band  of  Delawares  with  Pequot 
captives,  among  them  a  young  chief  to  whom  had 
been  offered  not  only  life  but  leadership  if  he  would 
renounce  his  tribe,  receive  the  mark  of  the  turtle  on 
his  breast,  and  become  a  Delaware.  On  his  refusal, 
he  was  bound  to  a  tree,  and  was  about  to  undergo  the 
torture,  when  a  girl  among  the  listeners  sprang  to  his 
side.  She,  too,  was  a  Pequot,  but  the  turtle  totem 
was  on  her  bosom,  and  when  she  begged  his  life, 
because  they  had  been  betrothed,  the  captors  paused 
to  talk  of  it.  She  had  chosen  well  the  time  to  in- 
terfere, for  a  band  of  Hurons  was  approaching,  and 
even  as  the  talk  went  on  their  yell  was  heard  in  the 
wood.  Instant  measures  for  defence  were  taken,  and 
in  the  fight  that  followed  both  chief  and  maiden  were 
forgotten  ;  but  though  she  cut  the  cords  that  bound 
him,  they  were  separated  in  the  confusion,  he  dis- 
appearing, she  falling  captive  to  the  Hurons,  who, 
sated  with  blood,  retired  from  the  field.  In  the  fan- 
tastic disguise  of  a  wizard  the  young  Pequot  entered 
their  camp  soon  after,  and  on  being  asked  to  try  his 
enchantments  for  the  cure  of  a  young  woman,  he  en- 
tered her  tent,  showing  no  surprise  at  finding  her 
to  be  the  maiden  of  his  choice,  who  was  suffering 
36 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

from  nothing  worse  than  nerves,  due  to  the  excite- 
ment of  the  battle.  Left  alone  with  his  patient,  he 
disclosed  his  identity,  and  planned  a  way  of  escape 
that  proved  effective  on  that  very  night,  for,  though 
pursued  by  the  angry  Hurons,  the  couple  reached 
"  safe  harbor,"  thence  making  a  way  to  their  own 
country  in  the  east,  where  they  were  married. 


DUNDERBERG 

DUNDERBERG,  "  Thunder  Mountain,"  at  the 
southern  gate  of  the  Hudson  Highlands,  is  a 
wooded  eminence,  chiefly  populated  by  a  crew  of 
imps  of  stout  circumference,  whose  leader,  the  Heer, 
is  a  bulbous  goblin  clad  in  the  dress  worn  by  Dutch 
colonists  two  centuries  ago,  and  carrying  a  speaking- 
trumpet,  through  which  he  bawls  his  orders  for  the 
blowing  of  winds  and  the  touching  off  of  lightnings. 
These  orders  are  given  in  Low  Dutch,  and  are  put 
into  execution  by  the  imps  aforesaid,  who  troop  into 
the  air  and  tumble  about  in  the  mist,  sometimes 
smiting  the  flag  or  topsail  of  a  ship  to  ribbons,  or 
laying  the  vessel  over  before  the  wind  until  she  is  in 
peril  of  going  on  beam  ends.  At  one  time  a  sloop 
passing  the  Dunderberg  had  nearly  foundered,  when 
the  crew  discovered  the  sugar-loaf  hat  of  the  Heer  at 
the  mast-head.  None  dared  to  climb  for  it,  and  it 
was  not  until  she  had  driven  past  Pollopel's  Island — 
the  limit  of  the  Heer's  jurisdiction — that  she  righted. 
As  she  did  so  the  little  hat  spun  into  the  air  like  a 
37 


Myths  and  Legends 

top,  creating  a  vortex  that  drew  up  the  storm-clouds, 
and  the  sloop  kept  her  way  prosperously  for  the  rest 
of  the  voyage.  The  captain  had  nailed  a  horse-shoe  to 
the  mast.  The  "  Hat  Rogue"  of  the  Devil's  Bridge 
in  Switzerland  must  be  a  relative  of  this  gamesome 
sprite,  for  his  mischief  is  usually  of  a  harmless  sort ; 
but,  to  be  on  the  safe  side,  the  Dutchmen  who  plied 
along  the  river  lowered  their  peaks  in  homage  to  the 
keeper  of  the  mountain,  and  for  years  this  was  a 
common  practice.  Mariners  who  paid  this  courtesy 
to  the  Heer  of  the  Donder  Berg  were  never  molested 
by  his  imps,  though  skipper  Ouselsticker,  of  Fish- 
kill, — for  all  he  had  a  parson  on  board, — was  once 
beset  by  a  heavy  squall,  and  the  goblin  came  out  of 
the  mist  and  sat  astraddle  of  his  bowsprit,  seeming 
to  guide  his  schooner  straight  toward  the  rocks. 
The  dominie  chanted  the  song  of  Saint  Nicolaus, 
and  the  goblin,  unable  to  endure  either  its  spiritual 
potency  or  the  worthy  parson's  singing,  shot  upward 
like  a  ball  and  rode  off  on  the  gale,  carrying  with 
him  the  nightcap  of  the  parson's  wife,  which  he 
hung  on  the  weathercock  of  Esopus  steeple,  forty 
miles  away. 

ANTHONY'S   NOSE 

THE  Hudson  Highlands  are  suggestively  named  : 
Bear  Mountain,  Sugar  Loaf,  Cro'  Nest,  Storm 
King,   called    by  the   Dutch    Boterberg,   or    Butter 
Hill,  from   its  likeness  to  a  pat  of  butter ;  Beacon 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

Hill,  where  the  fires  blazed  to  tell  the  country  that 
the  Revolutionary  war  was  over ;  Dunderberg,  Mount 
Taurus,  so  called  because  a  wild  bull  that  had  ter- 
rorized the  Highlands  was  chased  out  of  his  haunts 
on  this  height,  and  was  killed  by  falling  from  a  cliff 
on  an  eminence  to  the  northward,  known,  in  conse- 
quence, as  Breakneck  Hill.  These,  with  Anthony's 
Nose,  are  the  principal  points  of  interest  in  the 
lovely  and  impressive  panorama  that  unfolds  before 
the  view  as  the  boats  fly  onward. 

Concerning  the  last-named  elevation,  the  aquiline 
promontory  that  abuts  on  the  Hudson  opposite  Dun- 
derberg, it  takes  title  from  no  resemblance  to  the 
human  feature,  but  is  so  named  because  Anthony 
Van  Corlaer,  the  trumpeter,  who  afterwards  left  a 
reason  for  calling  the  upper  boundary  of  Manhattan 
Island  Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek,  killed  the  first  stur- 
geon ever  eaten  at  the  foot  of  this  mountain.  It 
happened  in  this  wise  :  By  assiduous  devotion  to  keg 
and  flagon  Anthony  had  begotten  a  nose  that  was  the 
wonder  and  admiration  of  all  who  knew  it,  for  its  size 
was  prodigious ;  in  color  it  rivalled  the  carbuncle, 
and  it  shone  like  polished  copper.  As  Anthony  was 
lounging  over  the  quarter  of  Peter  Stuyvesant's  galley 
one  summer  morning  this  nose  caught  a  ray  from  the 
sun  and  reflected  it  hissing  into  the  water,  where  it 
killed  a  sturgeon  that  was  rising  beside  the  vessel. 
The  fish  was  pulled  aboard,  eaten,  and  declared 
good,  though  the  singed  place  savored  of  brimstone, 
and  in  commemoration  of  the  event  Stuyvesant 
39 


Myths  and  Legends 

dubbed    the    mountain    that    rose    above    his  vessel 
Anthony's  Nose. 


MOODUA    CREEK 

MOODUA  is  an  evolution,  through  Murdy's 
and  Moodna,  from  Murderer's  Creek,  its 
present  inexpressive  name  having  been  given  to  it  by 
N.  P.  Willis.  One  Murdock  lived  on  its  shore  with 
his  wife,  two  sons,  and  a  daughter ;  and  often  in  the 
evening  Naoman,  a  warrior  of  a  neighboring  tribe, 
came  to  the  cabin,  caressed  the  children,  and  shared 
the  woodman's  hospitality.  One  day  the  little  girl 
found  in  the  forest  an  arrow  wrapped  in  snake-skin 
and  tipped  with  crow's  feather ;  then  the  boy  found 
a  hatchet  hanging  by  a  hair  from  a  bough  above  the 
door ;  then  a  glare  of  evil  eyes  was  caught  for  an 
instant  in  a  thicket.  Naoman,  when  he  came,  was 
reserved  and  stern,  finding  voice  only  to  warn  the 
family  to  fly  that  night ;  so,  when  all  was  still,  the 
threatened  family  made  its  way  softly,  but  quickly, 
to  the  Hudson  shore,  and  embarked  for  Fisher's 
Kill,  across  the  river. 

The  wind  lagged  and  their  boat  drew  heavily, 
and  when,  from  the  shade  of  Pollopel's  Island,  a 
canoe  swept  out,  propelled  by  twelve  men,  the 
hearts  of  the  people  in  the  boat  sank  in  despair. 
The  wife  was  about  to  leap  over,  but  Murdock 
drew  her  back  ;  then,  loading  and  firing  as  fast  as 
possible,  he  laid  six  of  his  pursuers  low ;  but  the 
40 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

canoe  was  savagely  urged  forward,  and  in  another 
minute  every  member  of  the  family  was  a  helpless 
captive.  When  the  skiff  had  been  dragged  back, 
the  prisoners  were  marched  through  the  wood  to  an 
open  spot  where  the  principal  members  of  the  tribe 
sat  in  council. 

The  sachem  arose,  twisted  his  hands  in  the 
woman's  golden  hair,  bared  his  knife,  and  cried, 
"  Tell  us  what  Indian  warned  you  and  betrayed  his 
tribe,  or  you  shall  see  husband  and  children  bleed 
before  your  eyes."  The  woman  answered  never  a 
word,  but  after  a  little  Naoman  arose  and  said, 
"  'Twas  I ;"  then  drew  his  blanket  about  him  and 
knelt  for  execution.  An  axe  cleft  his  skull.  Drunk 
with  the  sight  of  blood,  the  Indians  rushed  upon 
the  captives  and  slew  them,  one  by  one.  The 
prisoners  neither  shrank  nor  cried  for  mercy,  but 
met  their  end  with  hymns  upon  their  lips,  and,  see- 
ing that  they  could  so  meet  death,  one  member  of 
the  band  let  fall  his  arm  and  straight  became  a 
Christian.  The  cabin  was  burned,  the  bodies  flung 
into  the  stream,  and  the  stain  of  blood  was  seen  for 
many  a  year  in  Murderer's  Creek. 

A   TRAPPER'S   GHASTLY  VENGEANCE 

ABOUT  a  mile  back  from  the  Hudson,  at  Cox- 
sackie,  stood  the  cabin  of  Nick  Wolsey,  who, 
in  the  last  century,  was  known  to  the  river  settle- 
ments   as    a    hunter   and    trapper    of    correct   aim, 


Myths  and  Legends 

shrewdness,  endurance,  and  taciturn  habit.  For 
many  years  he  lived  in  this  cabin  alone,  except  for 
the  company  of  his  dog ;  but  while  visiting  a  camp 
of  Indians  in  the  wilderness  he  was  struck  with  the 
engaging  manner  of  one  of  the  girls  of  the  tribe  ; 
he  repeated  the  visit ;  he  found  cause  to  go  to  the 
camp  frequently ;  he  made  presents  to  the  father  of 
the  maid,  and  at  length  won  her  consent  to  be 
his  wife.  The  simple  marriage  ceremony  of  the 
tribe  was  performed,  and  Wolsey  led  Minamee  to 
his  home ;  but  the  wedding  was  interrupted  in  an 
almost  tragic  manner,  for  a  surly  fellow  who  had 
loved  the  girl,  yet  who  never  had  found  courage  to 
declare  himself,  was  wrought  to  such  a  jealous  fury 
at  the  discovery  of  Wolsey's  good  fortune  that  he 
sprang  at  him  with  a  knife,  and  would  have  de- 
spatched him  on  the  spot  had  not  the  white  man's 
faithful  hound  leaped  at  his  throat  and  borne  him  to 
the  ground. 

Wolsey  disarmed  the  fellow  and  kicked  and  cuffed 
him  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  while  the  whole 
company  shouted  with  laughter  at  this  ignominious 
punishment,  and  approved  it.  A  year  or  more 
passed.  Wolsey  and  his  Indian  wife  were  happy  in 
their  free  and  simple  life ;  happy,  too,  in  their  little 
babe.  Wolsey  was  seldom  absent  from  his  cabin 
for  any  considerable  length  of  time,  and  usually  re- 
turned to  it  before  the  night  set  in.  One  evening 
he  noticed  that  the  grass  and  twigs  were  bent  near 
his  house  by  some  passing  foot  that,  with  the  keen 
4* 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

eye  of  the  woodman,  he  saw  was  not  his  wife's. 
"  Some  hunter,"  he  said,  "  saw  the  house  when  he 
passed  here,  and  as,  belike,  he  never  saw  one  before, 
he  stopped  to  look  in."  For  the  trail  led  to  his 
window,  and  diverged  thence  to  the  forest  again. 
A  few  days  later,  as  he  was  returning,  he  came  on 
the  footprints  that  were  freshly  made,  and  a  shadow 
crossed  his  face.  On  nearing  the  door  he  stumbled 
on  the  body  of  his  dog,  lying  rigid  on  the  ground. 
"  How  did  this  happen,  Minamee  ?"  he  cried,  as 
he  flung  open  the  door.  The  wife  answered,  in  a 
low  voice,  "  Hush  !  you'll  wake  the  child." 

Nick  Wolsey  entered  the  cabin  and  stood  as  one 
turned  to  marble.  Minamee,  his  wife,  sat  on  the 
cold  hearth,  her  face  and  hands  cut  and  blackened, 
her  dress  torn,  her  eyes  glassy,  a  meaningless  smile 
on  her  lips.  In  her  arms  she  pressed  the  body  of 
her  infant,  its  dress  soaked  with  blood,  and  the  head 
of  the  little  creature  lay  on  the  floor  beside  her. 
She  crooned  softly  over  the  cold  clay  as  if  hushing 
it  to  sleep,  and  when  Wolsey  at  length  found  words, 
she  only  whispered,  "  Hush  !  you  will  wake  him." 
The  night  went  heavily  on ;  day  dawned,  and  the 
crooning  became  lower  and  lower  ;  still,  through  all 
that  day  the  bereft  woman  rocked  to  and  fro  upon 
the  floor,  and  the  agonized  husband  hung  about  her, 
trying  in  vain  to  give  comfort,  to  bind  her  wounds, 
to  get  some  explanation  of  the  mystery  that  con- 
fronted him.  The  second  night  set  in,  and  it  was 
evident  that  it  would  be  the  last  for  Minamee.  Her 
43 


Myths  and  Legends 

strength  failed  until  she  allowed  herself  to  be  placed 
on  a  couch  of  skins,  while  the  body  of  her  child 
was  gently  lifted  from  her  arms.  Then,  for  a  few 
brief  minutes,  her  reason  was  restored,  and  she 
found  words  to  tell  her  husband  how  the  Indian 
whose  murderous  attack  he  had  thwarted  at  the 
wedding  had  come  to  the  cabin,  shot  the  dog  that 
had  rushed  out  to  defend  the  place,  beat  the  woman 
back  from  the  door,  tore  the  baby  from  its  bed, 
slashed  its  head  off  with  a  knife,  and,  flinging  the 
little  body  into  her  lap,  departed  with  the  words, 
"  This  is  my  revenge.  I  am  satisfied."  Before  the 
sun  was  in  the  east  again  Minamee  was  with  her 
baby. 

Wolsey  sat  for  hours  in  the  ruin  of  his  happi- 
ness, his  breathing  alone  proving  that  he  was  alive, 
and  when  at  last  he  arose  and  went  out  of  the  house, 
there  were  neither  tears  nor  outcry  ;  he  saddled  his 
horse  and  rode  off  to  the  westward.  At  nightfall  he 
came  to  the  Indian  village  where  he  had  won  his 
wife,  and  relating  to  the  assembled  tribe  what  had 
happened,  he  demanded  that  the  murderer  be  given 
up  to  him.  His  demand  was  readily  granted,  where- 
upon the  white  man  advanced  on  the  cowering 
wretch,  who  had  confidently  expected  the  protection 
of  his  people,  and  with  the  quick  fling  and  jerk  of 
a  raw-hide  rope  bound  his  arms  to  his  side.  Then 
casting  a  noose  about  his  neck  and  tying  the  end  of 
it  to  his  saddle-bow,  he  set  off  for  the  Hudson. 
All  that  night  he  rode,  the  Indian  walking  and  run- 
44 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

ning  at  the  horse's  heels,  and  next  day  he  reached 
his  cabin.  Tying  his  prisoner  to  a  tree,  the  trapper 
cut  a  quantity  of  young  willows,  from  which  he 
fashioned  a  large  cradle-like  receptacle  ;  in  this  he 
placed  the  culprit,  face  upward,  and  tied  so  stoutly 
that  he  could  not  move  a  finger ;  then  going  into 
his  house,  he  emerged  with  the  body  of  Minamee, 
and  laid  it,  face  downward,  on  the  wretch,  who 
could  not  repress  a  groan  of  horror  as  the  awful 
burden  sank  on  his  breast.  Wolsey  bound  together 
the  living  and  the  dead,  and  with  a  swing  of  his 
powerful  arms  he  flung  them  on  his  horse's  back, 
securing  them  there  with  so  many  turns  of  rope  that 
nothing  could  displace  them.  Now  he  began  to 
lash  his  horse  until  the  poor  beast  trembled  with 
anger  and  pain,  when,  flinging  off  the  halter,  he 
gave  it  a  final  lash,  and  the  animal  plunged,  foaming 
and  snorting,  into  the  wilderness.  When  it  had 
vanished  and  the  hoof-beats  were  no  longer  heard, 
Nick  Wolsey  took  his  rifle  on  his  arm  and  left  his 
home  forever.  And  tradition  says  that  the  horse 
never  stopped  in  its  mad  career,  but  that  on  still 
nights  it  can  be  heard  sweeping  through  the  woods 
along  the  Hudson  and  along  the  Mohawk  like  a 
whirlwind,  and  that  as  the  sound  goes  by  a  smoth- 
ered voice  breaks  out  in  cursing,  in  appeal,  then  in 
harsh  and  dreadful  laughter. 


45 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE  VANDERDECKEN  OF  TAPPAN  ZEE 

IT  is  Saturday  night ;  the  swell  of  the  Hudson 
lazily  heaves  against  the  shores  of  Tappan  Zee, 
the  cliff  above  Tarrytown  where  the  white  lady 
cries  on  winter  nights  is  pale  in  starlight,  and 
crickets  chirp  in  the  boskage.  It  is  so  still  that  the 
lap  of  oars  can  be  heard  coming  across  the  water  at 
least  a  mile  away.  Some  small  boat,  evidently,  but 
of  heavy  build,  for  it  takes  a  vigorous  hand  to  propel 
it,  and  now  there  is  a  grinding  of  oars  on  thole-pins. 
Strange  that  it  is  not  yet  seen,  for  the  sound  is  near. 
Look !  Is  that  a  shadow  crossing  that  wrinkle  of 
starlight  in  the  water  ?  The  oars  have  stopped,  and 
there  is  no  wind  to  make  that  sound  of  a  sigh. 

Ho,  Rambout  Van  Dam  !  Is  it  you  ?  Are  you 
still  expiating  your  oath  to  pull  from  Kakiat  to 
Spuyten  Duyvil  before  the  dawn  of  Sabbath,  if  it 
takes  you  a  month  of  Sundays  ?  Better  for  you  had 
you  passed  the  night  with  your  roistering  friends  at 
Kakiat,  or  started  homeward  earlier,  for  Sabbath- 
breaking  is  no  sin  now,  and  you,  poor  ghost,  will 
find  little  sympathy  for  your  plight.  Grant  that 
your  month  of  Sundays,  or  your  cycle  of  months  of 
Sundays,  be  soon  up,  for  it  is  sad  to  be  reminded 
that  we  may  be  punished  for  offences  many  years 
forgotten.  When  the  sun  is  high  to-morrow  a  score 
of  barges  will  vex  the  sea  of  Tappan,  each  crowded 
with  men  and  maids  from  New  Amsterdam,  jigging 
to  profane  music  and  refreshing  themselves  with 
46 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

such  liquors  as  you,  Rambout,  never  even  smelled — 
be  thankful  for  that  much.  If  your  shade  sits  blink- 
ing at  them  from  the  wooded  buttresses  of  the  Pali- 
sades, you  must  repine,  indeed,  at  the  hardness  of 
your  fate. 


THE   GALLOPING   HESSIAN 

IN  the  flower-gemmed  cemetery  of  Tarrytown, 
where  gentle  Irving  sleeps,  a  Hessian  soldier 
was  interred  after  sustaining  misfortune  in  the  loss 
of  his  head  in  one  of  the  Revolutionary  battles. 
For  a  long  time  after  he  was  buried  it  was  the  habit 
of  this  gentleman  to  crawl  from  his  grave  at  un- 
seemly hours  and  gallop  about  the  country,  sending 
shivers  through  the  frames  of  many  worthy  people, 
who  shrank  under  their  blankets  when  they  heard 
the  rush  of  hoofs  along  the  unlighted  roads. 

In  later  times  there  lived  in  Tarrytown — so 
named  because  of  the  tarrying  habits  of  Dutch  gos- 
sips on  market  days,  though  some  hard-minded  peo- 
ple insist  that  Tarwe-town  means  Wheat-town — 
a  gaunt  schoolmaster,  one  Ichabod  Crane,  who 
cherished  sweet  sentiments  for  Katrina  Van  Tassell, 
the  buxom  daughter  of  a  farmer,  also  a  famous  maker 
of  pies  and  doughnuts.  Ichabod  had  been  calling 
late  one  evening,  and,  his  way  home  being  long, 
Katrina's  father  lent  him  a  horse  to  make  the  jour- 
ney ;  but  even  with  this  advantage  the  youth  set  out 
with  misgivings,  for  he  had  to  pass  the  graveyard. 
47 


Myths  and  Legends 

As  it  was  near  the  hour  when  the  Hessian  was  to 
ride,  he  whistled  feebly  to  keep  his  courage  up,  but 
when  he  came  to  the  dreaded  spot  the  whistle  died 
in  a  gasp,  for  he  heard  the  tread  of  a  horse.  On 
looking  around,  his  hair  bristled  and  his  heart  came 
up  like  a  plug  in  his  throat  to  hinder  his  breathing, 
for  he  saw  a  headless  horseman  coming  over  the 
ridge  behind  him,  blackly  defined  against  the  starry 
sky.  Setting  spurs  to  his  nag  with  a  hope  of  being 
first  to  reach  Sleepy  Hollow  bridge,  which  the  spec- 
tre never  passed,  the  unhappy  man  made  the  best 
possible  time  in  that  direction,  for  his  follower  was 
surely  overtaking  him.  Another  minute  and  the 
bridge  would  be  reached  ;  but,  to  Ichabod's  horror, 
the  Hessian  dashed  alongside  and,  rising  in  his  stir- 
rups, flung  his  head  full  at  the  fugitive's  back. 
With  a  squeal  of  fright  the  schoolmaster  rolled  into 
a  mass  of  weeds  by  the  wayside,  and  for  some 
minutes  he  remained  there,  knowing  and  remember- 
ing nothing. 

Next  morning  farmer  Van  Tassell's  horse  was 
found  grazing  in  a  field  near  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  a 
man  who  lived  some  miles  southward  reported  that 
he  had  seen  Mr.  Crane  striding  as  rapidly  along  the 
road  to  New  York  as  his  lean  legs  could  take  him, 
and  wearing  a  pale  and  serious  face  as  he  kept  his 
march.  There  were  yellow  stains  on  the  back  of 
his  coat,  and  the  man  who  restored  the  horse  found 
a  smashed  pumpkin  in  the  broken  bushes  beside  the 
road.  Ichabod  never  returned  to  Tarrytown,  and 
48 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

when  Brom  Bones,  a  stout  young  ploughman  and  tap- 
haunter,  married  Katrina,  people  made  bold  to  say 
that  he  knew  more  about  the  galloping  Hessian  than 
any  one  else,  though  they  believed  that  he  never  had 
reason  to  be  jealous  of  Ichabod  Crane. 

STORM   SHIP   OF   THE   HUDSON 

IT  was  noised  about  New  Amsterdam,  two  hun- 
dred years  ago,  that  a  round  and  bulky  ship 
flying  Dutch  colors  from  her  lofty  quarter  was 
careering  up  the  harbor  in  the  teeth  of  a  north 
wind,  through  the  swift  waters  of  an  ebbing  tide, 
and  making  for  the  Hudson.  A  signal  from  the 
Battery  to  heave  to  and  account  for  herself  being 
disregarded,  a  cannon  was  trained  upon  her,  and  a 
ball  went  whistling  through  her  cloudy  and  impon- 
derable mass,  for  timbers  she  had  none.  Some  of 
the  sailor-folk  talked  of  mirages  that  rose  into  the 
air  of  northern  coasts  and  seas,  but  the  wise  ones 
put  their  fingers  beside  their  noses  and  called  to 
memory  the  Flying  Dutchman,  that  wanderer  of  the 
seas  whose  captain,  having  sworn  that  he  would 
round  Cape  Horn  in  spite  of  heaven  and  hell,  has 
been  beating  to  and  fro  along  the  bleak  Fuegian 
coast  and  elsewhere  for  centuries,  being  allowed  to 
land  but  once  in  seven  years,  when  he  can  break  the 
curse  if  he  finds  a  girl  who  will  love  him.  Per- 
haps Captain  Vanderdecken  found  this  maiden  of  his 
hopes  in  some  Dutch  settlement  on  the  Hudson,  or 
4  49 


Myths  and  Legends 

perhaps  he  expiated  his  rashness  by  prayer  and 
penitence ;  howbeit,  he  never  came  down  again, 
unless  he  slipped  away  to  sea  in  snow  or  fog  so 
dense  that  watchers  and  boatmen  saw  nothing  of  his 
passing.  A  few  old  settlers  declared  the  vessel  to 
be  the  Half  Moon,  and  there  were  some  who  tes- 
tified to  seeing  that  identical  ship  with  Hudson  and 
his  spectre  crew  on  board  making  for  the  Catskills 
to  hold  carouse. 

This  fleeting  vision  has  been  confounded  with  the 
storm  ship  that  lurks  about  the  foot  of  the  Palisades 
and  Point-no-Point,  cruising  through  Tappan  Zee 
at  night  when  a  gale  is  coming  up.  The  Hudson  is 
four  miles  wide  at  Tappan,  and  squalls  have  space 
enough  to  gather  force ;  hence,  when  old  skippers 
saw  the  misty  form  of  a  ship  steal  out  from  the 
shadows  of  the  western  hills,  then  fly  like  a  gull 
from  shore  to  shore,  catching  the  moonlight  on  her 
topsails,  but  showing  no  lanterns,  they  made  to 
windward  and  dropped  anchor,  unless  their  craft 
were  stanch  and  their  pilot's  brains  unvexed  with 
liquor.  On  summer  nights,  when  falls  that  curious 
silence  which  is  ominous  of  tempest,  the  storm  ship 
is  not  only  seen  spinning  across  the  mirror  surface 
of  the  river,  but  the  voices  of  the  crew  are  heard 
as  they  chant  at  the  braces  and  halyards  in  words 
devoid  of  meaning  to  the  listeners. 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

WHY  SPUYTEN   DUYVIL  IS   SO   NAMED 

THE  tide-water  creek  that  forms  the  upper 
boundary  of  Manhattan  Island  is  known  to 
dwellers  in  tenements  round  about  as  "  Spittin' 
Divvle."  The  proper  name  of  it  is  Spuyten 
Duyvil,  and  this,  in  turn,  is  the  compression  of  a 
celebrated  boast  by  Anthony  Van  Corlaer.  This  re- 
doubtable gentleman,  famous  for  fat,  long  wind,  and 
long  whiskers,  was  trumpeter  for  the  garrison  at  New 
Amsterdam,  which  his  countrymen  had  just  bought 
for  twenty-four  dollars,  and  he  sounded  the  brass  so 
sturdily  that  in  the  fight  between  the  Dutch  and  In- 
dians at  the  Dey  Street  peach  orchard  his  blasts  struck 
more  terror  into  the  red  men's  hearts  than  did  the 
matchlocks  of  his  comrades.  William  the  Testy 
vowed  that  Anthony  and  his  trumpet  were  garrison 
enough  for  all  Manhattan  Island,  for  he  argued  that 
no  regiment  of  Yankees  would  approach  near  enough 
to  be  struck  with  lasting  deafness,  as  must  have  hap- 
pened if  they  came  when  Anthony  was  awake. 

Peter  Stuyvesant — Peter  the  Headstrong — showed 
his  appreciation  of  Anthony's  worth  by  making  him 
his  esquire,  and  when  he  got  news  of  an  English  ex- 
pedition on  its  way  to  seize  his  unoffending  colony, 
he  at  once  ordered  Anthony  to  rouse  the  villages 
along  the  Hudson  with  a  trumpet  call  to  war.  The 
esquire  took  a  hurried  leave  of  six  or  eight  ladies, 
each  of  whom  delighted  to  believe  that  his  affections 
were  lavished  on  her  alone,  and  bravely  started  north- 
Si 


Myths  and  Legends 

ward,  his  trumpet  hanging  on  one  side,  a  stone  bot- 
tle, much  heavier,  depending  from  the  other.  It  was 
a  stormy  evening  when  he  arrived  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  island,  and  there  was  no  ferryman  in  sight, 
so,  after  fuming  up  and  down  the  shore,  he  swal- 
lowed a  mighty  draught  of  Dutch  courage, — for  he 
was  as  accomplished  a  performer  on  the  horn  as  on 
the  trumpet, — and  swore  with  ornate  and  voluminous 
oaths  that  he  would  swim  the  stream  "  in  spite  of 
the  devil"  [En  spuyt  den  Duyvil]. 

He  plunged  in,  and  had  gone  half-way  across 
when  the  Evil  One,  not  to  be  spited,  appeared  as  a 
huge  moss-bunker,  vomiting  boiling  water  and  lash- 
ing a  fiery  tail.  This  dreadful  fish  seized  Anthony 
by  the  leg ;  but  the  trumpeter  was  game,  for,  raising 
his  instrument  to  his  lips,  he  exhaled  his  last  breath 
through  it  in  a  defiant  blast  that  rang  through  the 
woods  for  miles  and  made  the  devil  himself  let  go 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  was  dragged  below,  his 
nose  shining  through  the  water  more  and  more 
faintly,  until,  at  last,  all  sight  of  him  was  lost.  The 
failure  of  his  mission  resulted  in  the  downfall  of  the 
Dutch  in  America,  for,  soon  after,  the  English  won 
a  bloodless  victory,  and  St.  George's  cross  flaunted 
from  the  ramparts  where  Anthony  had  so  often 
saluted  the  setting  sun.  But  it  was  years,  even 
then,  before  he  was  hushed,  for  in  stormy  weather 
it  was  claimed  that  the  shrill  of  his  trumpet  could  be 
heard  near  the  creek  that  he  had  named,  sounding 
above  the  deeper  roar  of  the  blast. 
5* 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

THE   RAMAPO   SALAMANDER 

A  CURIOUS  tale  of  the  Rosicrucians  runs  to  the 
effect  that  more  than  two  centuries  ago  a  band 
of  German  colonists  entered  the  Ramapo  valley  and 
put  up  houses  of  stone,  like  those  they  had  left  in  the 
Hartz  Mountains,  and  when  the  Indians  saw  how 
they  made  knives  and  other  wonderful  things  out  of 
metal,  which  they  extracted  from  the  rocks  by  fire, 
they  believed  them  to  be  manitous  and  went  away, 
not  wishing  to  resist  their  possession  of  the  land. 
There  was  treasure  here,  for  High  Tor,  or  Torn 
Mountain,  had  been  the  home  of  Amasis,  youngest 
of  the  magi  who  had  followed  the  star  of  Bethlehem. 
He  had  found  his  way,  through  Asia  and  Alaska,  to 
this  country,  had  taken  to  wife  a  native  woman,  by 
whom  he  had  a  child,  and  here  on  the  summit  he 
had  built  a  temple.  Having  refused  the  sun  worship, 
when  the  Indians  demanded  that  he  should  take  their 
faith,  he  was  set  upon,  and  would  have  been  killed 
had  not  an  earthquake  torn  the  ground  at  his  feet, 
opening  a  new  channel  for  the  Hudson  and  pre- 
cipitating into  it  every  one  but  the  magus  and  his 
daughter.  To  him  had  been  revealed  in  magic 
vision  the  secrets  of  wealth  in  the  rocks. 

The  leader  in  the  German  colony,  one  Hugo,  was 
a  man  of  noble  origin,  who  had  a  wife  and  two  chil- 
dren:  a  boy,  named  after  himself;  a  girl, — Mary. 
Though  it  had  been  the  custom  in  the  other  country 
to  let  out  the  forge  fires  once  in  seven  years,  Hugo 
S3 


Myths  and  Legends 

opposed  that  practice  in  the  forge  he  had  built  as 
needless.  But  his  men  murmured  and  talked  of  the 
salamander  that  once  in  seven  years  attains  its  growth 
in  unquenched  flame  and  goes  forth  doing  mischief. 
On  the  day  when  that  period  was  ended  the  master 
entered  his  works  and  saw  the  men  gazing  into  the 
furnace  at  a  pale  form  that  seemed  made  from  flame, 
that  was  nodding  and  turning  in  the  fire,  occasionally 
darting  its  tongue  at  them  or  allowing  its  tail  to  fall 
out  and  lie  along  the  stone  floor.  As  he  came  to  the 
door  he,  too,  was  transfixed,  and  the  fire  seemed 
burning  his  vitals,  until  he  felt  water  sprinkled  on 
his  face,  and  saw  that  his  wife,  whom  he  had  left  at 
home  too  ill  to  move,  stood  behind  him  and  was 
casting  holy  water  into  the  furnace,  speaking  an  in- 
cantation as  she  did  so.  At  that  moment  a  storm 
arose,  and  a  rain  fell  that  put  out  the  fire ;  but  as  the 
last  glow  faded  the  lady  fell  dead. 

When  her  children  were  to  be  consecrated,  seven 
years  later,  those  who  stood  outside  of  the  church 
during  the  ceremony  saw  a  vivid  flash,  and  the 
nurse  turned  from  the  boy  in  her  fright.  She 
took  her  hands  from  her  eyes.  The  child  was  gone. 
Twice  seven  years  had  passed  and  the  daughter  re- 
mained unspotted  by  the  world,  for,  on  the  night 
when  her  father  had  led  her  to  the  top  of  High 
Torn  Mountain  and  shown  her  what  Amasis  had 
seen, — the  earth  spirits  in  their  caves  heaping  jewels 
and  offering  to  give  them  if  Hugo  would  speak  the 
word  that  binds  the  free  to  the  earth  forces  and  bars  his 
54 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

future  for  a  thousand  years, — it  was  her  prayer  that 
brought  him  to  his  senses  and  made  the  scene  below 
grow  dim,  though  the  baleful  light  of  the  salamander 
clinging  to  the  rocks  at  the  bottom  of  the  cave  sent 
a  glow  into  the  sky. 

Many  nights  after  that  the  glow  was  seen  on  the 
height  and  Hugo  was  missing  from  his  home,  but  for 
lack  of  a  pure  soul  to  stand  as  interpreter  he  failed  to 
read  the  words  that  burned  in  the  triangle  on  the  sala- 
mander's back,  and  returned  in  rage  and  jealousy.  A 
knightly  man  had  of  late  appeared  in  the  settlement, 
and  between  him  and  Mary  a  tender  feeling  had 
arisen,  that,  however,  was  unexpressed  until,  after 
saving  her  from  the  attack  of  a  panther,  he  had  allowed 
her  to  fall  into  his  arms.  She  would  willingly  then 
have  declared  her  love  for  him,  but  he  placed  her 
gently  and  regretfully  from  him  and  said,  "  When 
you  slept  I  came  to  you  and  put  a  crown  of  gems  on 
your  head  :  that  was  because  I  was  in  the  power  of 
the  earth  spirit.  Then  I  had  power  only  over  the 
element  of  fire,  that  either  consumes  or  hardens  to 
stone  ;  but  now  water  and  life  are  mine.  Behold ! 
Wear  these,  for  thou  art  worthy."  And  touching 
the  tears  that  had  fallen  from  her  eyes,  they  turned 
into  lilies  in  his  hands,  and  he  put  them  on  her  brow. 

"  Shall  we  meet  again  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  he.  "  I  tread  the  dark- 
ness of  the  universe  alone,  and  I  peril  my  redemp- 
tion by  yielding  to  this  love  of  earth.  Thou  art  re- 
deemed already,  but  I  must  make  my  way  back  to 
55 


Myths  and  Legends 

God  through  obedience  tested  in  trial.  Know  that 
I  am  one  of  those  that  left  heaven  for  love  of  man. 
We  were  of  that  subtle  element  which  is  flame, — 
burning  and  glowing  with  love, — and  when  thy 
mother  came  to  me  with  the  power  of  purity  to 
cast  me  out  of  the  furnace,  I  lost  my  shape  of  fire 
and  took  that  of  a  human  being, — a  child.  I  have 
been  with  thee  often,  and  was  rushing  to  annihila- 
tion, because  I  could  not  withstand  the  ordeal  of  the 
senses.  Had  I  yielded,  or  found  thee  other  than 
thou  art,  I  should  have  become  again  an  earth  spirit. 
I  have  been  led  away  by  wish  for  power,  such  as  I 
have  in  my  grasp,  and  forgot  the  mission  to  the  suf- 
fering. I  became  a  wanderer  over  the  earth  until  I 
reached  this  land,  the  land  that  you  call  new.  Here 
was  to  be  my  last  trial  and  here  I  am  to  pass  the  gate 
of  fire." 

As  he  spoke  voices  arose  from  the  settlement. 
"  They  are  coming,"  said  he.  The  stout  form  of 
Hugo  was  in  advance.  With  a  fierce  oath  he  sprang 
on  the  young  man.  "  He  has  ruined  my  house- 
hold," he  cried.  "  Fling  him  into  the  furnace !" 
The  young  man  stood  waiting,  but  his  brow  was 
serene.  He  was  seized,  and  in  a  few  moments  had 
disappeared  through  the  mouth  of  the  burning  pit. 
But  Mary,  looking  up,  saw  a  shape  in  robes  of  sil- 
very light,  and  it  drifted  upward  until  it  vanished  in 
the  darkness.  The  look  of  horror  on  her  face  died 
away,  and  a  peace  came  to  it  that  endured  until  the 
end. 

56 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

CHIEF   CROTON 

TJETWEEN  the  island  of  Manhattoes  and  the 
JLJ  Catskills  the  Hudson  shores  were  plagued 
with  spooks,  and  even  as  late  as  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury Hans  Anderson,  a  man  who  tilled  a  farm  back 
of  Peekskill,  was  worried  into  his  grave  by  the 
leaden-face  likeness  of  a  British  spy  whom  he  had 
hanged  on  General  Putnam's  orders.  "  Old  Put" 
doubtless  enjoyed  immunity  from  this  vexatious  creat- 
ure, because  he  was  born  with  few  nerves.  A  re- 
gion especially  afflicted  was  the  confluence  of  the 
Croton  and  the  Hudson,  for  the  Kitchawan  burying- 
ground  was  here,  and  the  red  people  being  disturbed 
by  the  tramping  of  white  men  over  their  graves, 
"  the  walking  sachems  of  Teller's  Point"  were 
nightly  to  be  met  on  their  errands  of  protest. 

These  Indians  had  built  a  palisade  on  Croton 
Point,  and  here  they  made  their  last  stand  against 
their  enemies  from  the  north.  Throughout  the 
fight  old  chief  Croton  stood  on  the  wall  with  arrows 
showering  around  him,  and  directed  the  resistance 
with  the  utmost  calm.  Not  until  every  one  of  his 
men  was  dead  and  the  fort  was  going  up  in  flame 
about  him  did  he  confess  defeat.  Then  standing 
amid  the  charring  timbers,  he  used  his  last  breath 
in  calling  down  the  curse  of  the  Great  Spirit  against 
the  foe.  As  the  victorious  enemy  rushed  into  the 
enclosure  to  secure  the  scalps  of  the  dead  he  fell 
lifeless  into  the  fire,  and  their  jubilant  yell  was  lost 
57 


Myths  and  Legends 

upon  his  ears.  Yet,  he  could  not  rest  nor  bear 
to  leave  his  ancient  home,  even  after  death,  and 
often  his  form,  in  musing  attitude,  was  seen  moving 
through  the  woods.  When  a  manor  was  built  on 
the  ruins  of  his  fort,  he  appeared  to  the  master  of 
it,  to  urge  him  into  the  Continental  army,  and 
having  seen  this  behest  obeyed  and  laid  a  solemn 
injointure  to  keep  the  freedom  of  the  land  forever, 
he  vanished,  and  never  appeared  again. 


THE   RETREAT   FROM   MAHOPAC 

AFTER  the  English  had  secured  the  city  of  New 
Amsterdam  and  had  begun  to  extend  their 
settlements  along  the  Hudson,  the  Indians  congre- 
gated in  large  numbers  about  Lake  Mahopac,  and 
rejected  all  overtures  for  the  purchase  of  that  re- 
gion. In  their  resolution  they  were  sustained  by 
their  young  chief  Omoyao,  who  refused  to  abandon 
on  any  terms  the  country  where  his  fathers  had  so 
long  hunted,  fished,  and  built  their  lodges.  A  half- 
breed,  one  Joliper,  a  member  of  this  tribe,  was 
secretly  in  the  pay  of  the  English,  but  the  allure- 
ments and  insinuations  that  he  put  forth  on  their 
behalf  were  as  futile  as  the  breathing  of  wind  in 
the  leaves.  At  last  the  white  men  grew  angry. 
Have  the  land  they  would,  by  evil  course  if  good 
ways  were  refused,  and  commissioning  Joliper  to 
act  for  them  in  a  decisive  manner,  they  guaranteed 
to  supply  him  with  forces  if  his  negotiations  fell 
58 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

through.  This  man  never  thought  it  needful  to 
negotiate.  He  knew  the  temper  of  his  tribe  and  he 
was  too  jealous  of  his  chief  to  go  to  him  for  favors, 
because  he  loved  Maya,  the  chosen  one  of  Omoyao. 
At  the  door  of  Maya's  tent  he  entreated  her  to 
go  with  him  to  the  white  settlements,  and  on  her 
refusal  he  broke  into  angry  threats,  declaring,  in  the 
self-forgetfulness  of  passion,  that  he  would  kill  her 
lover  and  lead  the  English  against  the  tribe.  Un- 
known to  both  Omoyao  had  overheard  this  inter- 
view, and  he  immediately  sent  runners  to  tell  all 
warriors  of  his  people  to  meet  him  at  once  on  the 
island  in  the  lake.  Though  the  runners  were  cau- 
tioned to  keep  their  errand  secret,  it  is  probable  that 
Joliper  suspected  that  the  alarm  had  gone  forth,  and 
he  resolved  to  strike  at  once ;  so  he  summoned  his 
renegades,  stole  into  camp  next  evening  and  made 
toward  Maya's  wigwam,  intending  to  take  her  to  a 
place  of  safety.  Seeing  the  chief  at  the  door,  he 
shot  an  arrow  at  him,  but  the  shaft  went  wide  and 
slew  the  girl's  father.  Realizing,  upon  this  assault, 
that  he  was  outwitted  and  that  his  people  were  out- 
numbered, the  chief  called  to  Maya  to  meet  him  at 
the  island,  and  plunged  into  the  brush,  after  seeing 
that  she  had  taken  flight  in  an  opposite  direction. 
The  vengeful  Joliper  was  close  behind  him  with  his 
renegades,  and  the  chief  was  captured  ;  then,  that  he 
might  not  communicate  with  his  people  or  delay 
the  operations  against  them,  it  was  resolved  to  put 
him  to  death. 

59 


Myths  and  Legends 

He  was  tied  to  a  tree,  the  surrounding  wood  was 
set  on  fire,  and  he  was  abandoned  to  his  fate,  his 
enemies  leaving  him  to  destruction  in  their  haste  to 
reach  the  place  of  the  council  and  slay  or  capture 
all  who  were  there.  Hardly  were  they  out  of  hear- 
ing ere  the  plash  of  a  paddle  sounded  through  the 
roar  of  flame  and  Maya  sprang  upon  the  bank,  cut 
her  lover's  bonds,  and  with  him  made  toward  the 
island,  which  they  reached  by  a  protected  way  be- 
fore the  assailants  had  arrived.  They  told  the  story 
of  Joliper's  cruelty  and  treason,  and  when  his  boats 
were  seen  coming  in  to  shore  they  had  eyes  and 
hands  only  for  Joliper.  He  was  the  first  to  land. 
Hardly  had  he  touched  the  strand  before  he  was 
surrounded  by  a  frenzied  crowd  and  had  fallen 
bleeding  from  a  hundred  gashes. 

The  Indians  were  overpowered  after  a  brief  and 
bloody  resistance.  They  took  safety  in  flight. 
Omoyao  and  Maya,  climbing  upon  the  rock  above 
their  "  council  chamber,"  found  that  while  most  of 
their  people  had  escaped  their  own  retreat  was  cut 
off,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  reach  any  of 
the  canoes.  They  preferred  death  to  torture  and 
captivity,  so,  hand  in  hand,  they  leaped  together 
down  the  cliff,  and  the  English  claimed  the  land 
next  day. 


60 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

NIAGARA 

THE  cataract  of  Niagara  (properly  pronounced 
Nee-ah-gah-rah),  or  Oniahgarah,  is  as  fatal  as 
it  is  fascinating,  beautiful,  sublime,  and  the  casualties 
occurring  there  justify  the  tradition  that  "  the  Thun- 
dering Water  asks  two  victims  every  year."  It  was 
reputed,  before  white  men  looked  for  the  first  time 
on  these  falls — and  what  thumping  yarns  they  told 
about  them  ! — that  two  lives  were  lost  here  annually, 
and  this  average  has  been  kept  up  by  men  and  women 
who  fall  into  the  flood  through  accident,  recklessness 
or  despair,  while  bloody  battles  have  been  fought  on 
the  shores,  and  vessels  have  been  hurled  over  the 
brink,  to  be  dashed  to  splinters  on  the  rocks. 

The  sound  of  the  cataract  .was  declared  to  be  the 
voice  of  a  mighty  spirit  that  dwelt  in  the  waters, 
and  in  former  centuries  the  Indians  offered  to  it  a 
yearly  sacrifice.  This  sacrifice  was  a  maiden  of  the 
tribe,  who  was  sent  over  in  a  white  canoe,  decorated 
with  fruit  and  flowers,  and  the  girls  contended  for 
this  honor,  for  the  brides  of  Manitou  were  objects 
of  a  special  grace  in  the  happy  hunting-grounds. 
The  last  recorded  sacrifice  was  in  1679,  when  Lela- 
wala,  the  daughter  of  chief  Eagle  Eye,  was  chosen, 
in  spite  of  the  urgings  and  protests  of  the  chevalier 
La  Salle,  who  had  been  trying  to  restrain  the  people 
from  their  idolatries  by  an  exposition  of  the  Chris- 
tian dogma.  To  his  protests  he  received  the  unex- 
pected answer,  "  Your  words  witness  against  you. 
61 


Myths  and  Legends 

Christ,  you  say,  set  us  an  example.  We  will  follow 
it.  Why  should  one  death  be  great,  while  our  sacri- 
fice is  horrible  ?"  So  the  tribe  gathered  at  the  bank 
to  watch  the  sailing  of  the  white  canoe.  The  chief 
watched  the  embarkation  with  the  stoicism  usual  to 
the  Indian  when  he  is  observed  by  others,  but  when 
the  little  bark  swung  out  into  the  current  his  affection 
mastered  him,  and  he  leaped  into  his  own  canoe  and 
tried  to  overtake  his  daughter.  In  a  moment  both 
were  beyond  the  power  of  rescue.  After  their  death 
they  were  changed  into  spirits  of  pure  strength  and 
goodness,  and  live  in  a  crystal  heaven  so  far  beneath 
the  fall  that  its  roaring  is  a  music  to  them  :  she,  the 
maid  of  the  mist ;  he,  the  ruler  of  the  cataract.  An- 
other version  of  the  legend  makes  a  lover  and  his 
mistress  the  chief  actors.  Some  years  later  a  patri- 
arch of  the  tribe  and  all  his  sons  went  over  the  fall 
when  the  white  men  had  seized  their  lands,  preferring 
death  to  flight  or  war. 

In  about  the  year  200  the  Stone  Giants  waded 
across  the  river  below  the  falls  on  their  northward 
march.  These  beings  were  descended  from  an  an- 
cient family,  and  being  separated  from  their  stock  in 
the  year  1 50  by  the  breaking  of  a  vine  bridge  across 
the  Mississippi,  they  left  that  region.  Indian  Pass, 
in  the  Adirondacks,  bore  the  names  of  Otneyarheh, 
Stony  Giants  ;  Ganosgwah,  Giants  Clothed  in  Stone  ; 
and  Dayohjegago,  Place  Where  the  Storm  Clouds 
Fight  the  Great  Serpent.  Giants  and  serpents  were 
held  to  be  harmful  inventions  of  the  Evil  Spirit,  and 
62 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

the  Lightning  god,  catching  up  clouds  as  he  stood  on 
the  crags,  broke  them  open,  tore  their  lightnings  out 
and  hurled  them  against  the  monsters.  These  can- 
nibals had  almost  exterminated  the  Iroquois,  for  they 
were  of  immense  size  and  had  made  themselves  al- 
most invincible  by  rolling  daily  in  the  sand  until 
their  flesh  was  like  stone.  The  Holder  of  the 
Heavens,  viewing  their  evil  actions  from  on  high, 
came  down  disguised  as  one  of  their  number — he 
used  often  to  meditate  on  Manitou  Rock,  at  the 
Whirlpool — and  leading  them  to  a  valley  near 
Onondaga,  on  pretence  of  guiding  them  to  a  fairer 
country,  he  stood  on  a  hill  above  them  and  hurled 
rocks  upon  their  heads  until  all,  save  one,  who  fled 
into  the  north,  were  dead.  Yet,  in  the  fulness  of 
time,  new  children  of  the  Stone  Giants  (mail-clad 
Europeans  ?)  entered  the  region  again  and  were  de- 
stroyed by  the  Great  Spirit, — oddly  enough  where 
the  famous  fraud  known  as  the  Cardiff  giant  was  al- 
leged to  have  been  found.  The  Onondagas  believed 
this  statue  to  be  one  of  their  ancient  foes. 

THE   DEFORMED   OF   ZOAR 

THE  valley  of  Zoar,  in  western  New  York,  is  so 
surrounded  by  hills  that  its  discoverers — a  re- 
ligious people,  who  gave  it  a  name  from  Scripture — 
said,  "  This  is  Zoar ;  it  is  impregnable.      From  her 
we  will  never  go."    And  truly,  for  lack  of  roads,  they 
found  it  so  hard  to  get  out,  having  got  in,  that  they 
63 


Myths  and  Legends 

did  not  leave  it.  Among  the  early  settlers  here  were 
people  of  a  family  named  Wright,  whose  house  be- 
came a  sort  of  inn  for  the  infrequent  traveller,  inas- 
much as  they  were  not  troubled  with  piety,  and  had 
no  scruples  against  the  selling  of  drink  and  the  play- 
ing of  cards  at  late  hours.  A  peddler  passed  through 
the  valley  on  his  way  to  Buffalo  and  stopped  at  the 
Wright  house  for  a  lodging,  but  before  he  went  to 
bed  he  incautiously  showed  a  number  of  golden 
trinkets  from  his  pack  and  drew  a  considerable 
quantity  of  money  out  of  his  pocket  when  he  paid 
the  fee  for  his  lodging.  Hardly  had  he  fallen  asleep 
before  his  greedy  hosts  were  in  the  room,  searching 
for  his  money.  Their  lack  of  caution  caused  him  to 
awake,  and  as  he  found  them  rifling  his  pockets  and 
his  pack  he  sprang  up  and  showed  fight. 

A  blow  sent  him  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  where 
his  attempt  to  escape  was  intercepted,  and  the  family 
closed  around  him  and  bound  his  arms  and  legs. 
They  showed  him  the  money  they  had  taken  and 
asked  where  he  had  concealed  the  rest.  He  vowed 
that  it  was  all  he  had.  They  insisted  that  he  had 
more,  and  seizing  a  knife  from  the  table  the  elder 
Wright  slashed  off  one  of  his  toes  "  to  make  him 
confess."  No  result  came  from  this,  and  six  toes 
were  cut  off, — three  from  each  foot ;  then,  in  dis- 
gust, the  unhappy  peddler  was  knocked  on  the  head 
and  flung  through  a  trap-door  into  a  shallow  cellar. 
Presently  he  arose  and  tried  to  draw  himself  out,  but 
with  hatchet  and  knife  they  chopped  away  his  fin- 
64 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

gers  and  he  fell  back.  Even  the  women  shared  in 
this  work,  and  leaned  forward  to  gaze  into  the  cellar 
to  see  if  he  might  yet  be  dead.  While  listening, 
they  heard  the  man  invoke  the  curse  of  heaven  on 
them  :  he  asked  that  they  should  wear  the  mark  of 
crime  even  to  the  fourth  generation,  by  coming  into 
the  world  deformed  and  mutilated  as  he  was  then. 
And  it  was  so.  The  next  child  born  in  that  house 
had  round,  hoof-like  feet,  with  only  two  toes,  and 
hands  that  tapered  from  the  wrist  into  a  single  long 
finger.  And  in  time  there  were  twenty  people  so 
deformed  in  the  valley  :  "  the  crab-clawed  Zoarites" 
they  were  called. 

HORSEHEADS 

'"T"VHE  feeling  recently  created  by  an  attempt  to 
J_  fasten  the  stupid  names  of  Fairport  or  of 
North  Elmira  on  the  village  in  central  New  York 
that,  off  and  on  for  fifty  years,  had  been  called  Horse- 
heads,  caused  an  inquiry  as  to  how  that  singular 
name  chanced  to  be  adopted  for  a  settlement.  In 
1779,  when  General  Sullivan  was  retiring  toward 
the  base  of  his  supplies  after  a  destructive  campaign 
against  the  Indians  in  Genesee  County,  he  stopped 
near  this  place  and  rested  his  troops.  The  country 
was  then  rude,  unbroken,  and  still  beset  with 
enemies,  however,  and  when  the  march  was  resumed 
it  was  thought  best  to  gain  time  over  a  part  of  the 
way  by  descending  the  Chemung  River  on  rafts, 
s  65 


Myths  and  Legends 

As  there  were  no  appliances  for  building  large 
floats,  and  the  depth  of  the  water  was  not  known, 
the  general  ordered  a  destruction  of  all  impedi- 
menta that  could  be  got  rid  of,  and  commanded  that 
the  poor  and  superfluous  horses  should  be  killed. 
His  order  was  obeyed.  As  soon  as  the  troops  had 
gone,  the  wolves,  that  were  then  abundant,  came 
forth  and  devoured  the  carcasses  of  the  steeds,  so 
that  the  clean-picked  bones  were  strewn  widely 
over  the  camp-ground.  When  the  Indians  ventured 
back  into  this  region,  some  of  them  piled  the  skulls 
of  the  horses  into  heaps,  and  these  curious  monu- 
ments were  found  by  white  settlers  who  came  into 
the  valley  some  years  later,  and  who  named  their 
village  Horseheads,  in  commemoration  of  these 
relics.  The  Indians  were  especially  loth  to  leave 
this  region,  for  their  tradition  was  that  it  had  been 
the  land  of  the  Senecas  from  immemorial  time,  the 
tribe  being  descended  from  a  couple  that  had  a 
home  on  a  hill  near  Horseheads. 


KAYUTA   AND   WANETA 

THE  Indians  loved  our  lakes.    They  had  eyes  for 
their  beauty,  and  to  them  they  were  abodes 
of  gracious  spirits.     They  used  to  say  of  Oneida 
Lake,  that  when  the  Great  Spirit  formed  the  world 
"  his  smile  rested   on   its  waters  and   Frenchman's 
Island  rose  to  greet  it ;  he  laughed  and  Lotus  Island 
came  up  to  listen."     So  they  built  lodges  on  their 
66 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

shores  and  skimmed  their  waters  in  canoes.  Much 
of  their  history  relates  to  them,  and  this  is  a  tale  of 
the  Senecas  that  was  revived  a  few  years  ago  by  the 
discovery  of  a  deer-skin  near  Lakes  Waneta  and 
Keuka,  New  York,  on  which  some  facts  of  the  his- 
tory were  rudely  drawn,  for  all  Indians  are  artists. 

Waneta,  daughter  of  a  chief,  had  plighted  her 
troth  to  Kayuta,  a  hunter  of  a  neighboring  tribe 
with  which  her  people  were  at  war.  Their  tryst 
was  held  at  twilight  on  the  farther  shore  of  the  lake 
from  her  village,  and  it  was  her  gayety  and  happi- 
ness, after  these  meetings  had  taken  place,  that 
roused  the  suspicion  and  jealousy  of  Weutha,  who 
had  marked  her  for  his  bride  against  the  time  when 
he  should  have  won  her  father's  consent  by  some 
act  of  bravery.  Shadowing  the  girl  as  she  stole 
into  the  forest  one  evening,  he  saw  her  enter  her 
canoe  and  row  to  a  densely  wooded  spot ;  he  heard 
a  call  like  the  note  of  a  quail,  then  an  answer ;  then 
Kayuta  emerged  on  the  shore,  lifted  the  maiden 
from  her  little  bark,  and  the  twain  sat  down  beside 
the  water  to  listen  to  the  lap  of  its  waves  and  watch 
the  stars  come  out. 

Hurrying  back  to  camp,  the  spy  reported  that  an 
enemy  was  near  them,  and  although  Waneta  had 
regained  her  wigwam  by  another  route  before  the 
company  of  warriors  had  reached  the  lake,  Kayuta 
was  seen,  pursued,  and  only  escaped  with  difficulty. 
Next  evening,  not  knowing  what  had  happened 
after  her  homeward  departure  on  the  previous  night 
67 


Myths  and  Legends 

— for  the  braves  deemed  it  best  to  keep  the  knowl- 
edge of  their  military  operations  from  the  women 
— the  girl  crept  away  to  the  lake  again  and  rowed 
to  the  accustomed  place,  but  while  waiting  for  the 
quail  call  a  twig  dropped  on  the  water  beside  her. 
With  a  quick  instinct  that  civilization  has  spoiled 
she  realized  this  to  be  a  warning,  and  remaining 
perfectly  still,  she  allowed  her  boat  to  drift  toward 
shore,  presently  discovering  that  her  lover  was 
standing  waist-deep  in  the  water.  In  a  whisper  he 
told  her  that  they  were  watched,  and  bade  her  row 
to  a  dead  pine  that  towered  at  the  foot  of  the  lake, 
where  he  would  soon  meet  her.  At  that  instant  an 
arrow  grazed  his  side  and  flew  quivering  into  the 
canoe. 

Pushing  the  boat  on  its  course  and  telling  her  to 
hasten,  Kayuta  sprang  ashore,  sounded  the  war- 
whoop,  and  as  Weutha  rose  into  sight  he  clove  his 
skull  with  a  tomahawk.  Two  other  braves  now 
leaped  forward,  but,  after  a  struggle,  Kayuta  left 
them  dead  or  senseless,  too.  He  would  have  stayed 
to  tear  their  scalps  off  had  he  not  heard  his  name 
uttered  in  a  shriek  of  agony  from  the  end  of  the 
lake,  and,  tired  and  bleeding  though  he  was,  he 
bounded  along  its  margin  like  a  deer,  for  the  voice 
that  he  heard  was  Waneta's.  He  reached  the 
blasted  pine,  gave  one  look,  and  sank  to  the  earth. 
Presently  other  Indians  came,  who  had  heard  the 
noise  of  fighting,  and  burst  upon  him  with  yells  and 
brandished  weapons,  but  something  in  his  look  re- 
68 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

strained  them  from  a  close  advance.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  on  a  string  of  beads  that  lay  on  the  bottom  of 
the  lake,  just  off  shore,  and  when  the  meaning  of  it 
came  to  them,  the  savages  thought  no  more  of  kill- 
ing, but  moaned  their  grief;  for  Waneta,  in  stepping 
from  her  canoe  to  wade  ashore,  had  been  caught  and 
swallowed  by  a  quagmire.  All  night  and  all  next 
day  Kayuta  sat  there  like  a  man  of  stone.  Then, 
just  as  the  hour  fell  when  he  was  used  to  meet  his 
love,  his  heart  broke,  and  he  joined  her  in  the  spirit 
land. 

THE   DROP   STAR 

A  LITTLE  maid  of  three  years  was  missing  from 
her  home  on  the  Genesee.  She  had  gone  to 
gather  water-lilies  and  did  not  return.  Her  mother, 
almost  crazed  with  grief,  searched  for  days,  weeks, 
months,  before  she  could  resign  herself  to  the  thought 
that  her  little  one — Kayutah,  the  Drop  Star,  the  In- 
dians called  her — had  indeed  been  drowned.  Years 
went  by.  The  woman's  home  was  secure  against 
pillage,  for  it  was  no  longer  the  one  house  of  a  white 
family  in  that  region,  and  the  Indians  had  retired 
farther  and  farther  into  the  wilderness.  One  day  a 
hunter  came  to  the  woman  and  said,  "  I  have  seen 
old  Skenandoh, — the  last  of  his  tribe,  thank  God  ! — 
who  bade  me  say  this  to  you :  that  the  ice  is  broken, 
and  he  knows  of  a  hill  of  snow  where  a  red  berry 
grows  that  shall  be  yours  if  you  will  claim  it." 
When  the  meaning  of  this  message  came  upon  her 
69 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  woman  fainted,  but  on  recovering  speech  she 
despatched  her  nephew  to  the  hut  of  the  aged  chief 
and  passed  that  night  in  prayer. 

The  young  man  set  off  at  sunset,  and  by  hard 
riding,  over  dim  trails,  with  only  stars  for  light,  he 
came  in  the  gray  of  dawn  to  an  upright  timber,  col- 
ored red  and  hung  with  scalps,  that  had  been  cut 
from  white  men's  heads  at  the  massacre  of  Wyoming. 
The  place  they  still  call  Painted  Post.  Without 
drawing  rein  he  sped  along  the  hills  that  hem  Lake 
Seneca,  then,  striking  deeper  into  the  wilds,  he 
reached  a  smaller  lake,  and  almost  fell  from  his  sad- 
dle before  a  rude  tent  near  the  shore.  A  new  grave 
had  been  dug  close  by,  and  he  shuddered  to  think 
that  perhaps  he  had  come  too  late,  but  a  wrinkled 
Indian  stepped  forth  at  that  moment  and  waited 
his  word. 

"  I  come,"  cried  the  youth,  "  to  see  the  berry 
that  springs  from  snow." 

"  You  come  in  time,"  answered  Skenandoh. 
"  No,  'tis  not  in  that  grave.  It  is  my  own  child 
that  is  buried  there.  She  was  as  a  sister  to  the  one 
you  seek,  and  she  bade  me  restore  the  Drop  Star  to 
her  mother, — the  squaw  that  we  know  as  the  New 
Moon's  Light." 

Stepping  into  the  wigwam,  he  emerged  again, 
clasping  the  wrist  of  a  girl  of  eighteen,  whose  robe 
he  tore  asunder  at  the  throat,  showing  the  white 
breast,  and  on  it  a  red  birth-mark ;  then,  leading  her 
to  the  young  man,  he  said,  "And  now  I  must  go  to 
70 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

the  setting  sun."  He  slung  a  pouch  about  him, 
loaded,  not  with  arms  and  food,  but  stones,  stepped 
into  his  canoe,  and  paddled  out  upon  the  water, 
singing  as  he  went  a  melancholy  chant — his  death- 
song.  On  gaining  the  middle  of  the  lake  he  swung 
his  tomahawk  and  clove  the  bottom  of  the  frail  boat, 
so  that  it  filled  in  a  moment  and  the  chief  sank  from 
sight.  The  young  man  took  his  cousin  to  her  over- 
joyed mother,  helped  to  win  her  back  to  the  ways 
of  civilized  life,  and  eventually  married  her.  She 
took  her  Christian  name  again,  but  left  to  the  lake 
on  whose  banks  she  had  lived  so  long  her  Indian 
name  of  Drop  Star — Kayutah. 

THE   PROPHET   OF   PALMYRA 

IT  was  at  Palmyra,  New  York,  that  the  principles 
of  Mormonism  were  first  enunciated  by  Joseph 
Smith,  who  claimed  to  have  found  the  golden  plates 
of  the  Book  of  Mormon  in  a  hill-side  in  neighboring 
Manchester, — the  "  Hill  of  Cumorah," — to  which 
he  was  led  by  angels.  The  plates  were  written  in 
characters  similar  to  the  masonic  cabala,  and  he 
translated  them  by  divine  aid,  giving  to  the  world 
the  result  of  his  discovery.  The  Hebrew  prophet 
Mormon  was  the  alleged  author  of  the  record,  and 
his  son  Moroni  buried  it.  The  basis  of  Mormon- 
ism  was,  however,  an  unpublished  novel,  called 
"  The  Manuscript  Found,"  that  was  read  to  Sidney 
Rigdon  (afterwards  a  Mormon  elder)  by  its  author, 
7' 


Myths  and  Legends 

a  clergyman,  and  that  formulated  a  creed  for  a  hy- 
pothetical church.  Smith  had  a  slight  local  celeb- 
rity, for  he  and  his  father  were  operators  with  the 
divining-rod,  and  when  he  appropriated  this  creed — 
a  harmless  and  beneficent  one,  for  polygamy  was  a 
later  "  inspiration"  of  Brigham  Young — and  began  to 
preach  it,  in  1 844,  it  gained  many  converts.  His  arro- 
gation  of  the  presidency  of  the  "  Church  of  Latter 
Day  Saints"  and  other  rash  performances  won  for  him 
the  enmity  of  the  Gentiles,  who  imprisoned  and  killed 
him  at  Carthage,  Missouri,  leaving  Brigham  Young 
to  lead  the  people  across  the  deserts  to  Salt  Lake, 
where  they  prospered  through  thrift  and  industry. 

It  was  claimed  that  in  the  van  of  this  army,  on  the 
march  to  Utah,  was  often  seen  a  venerable  man  with 
silver  beard,  who  never  spoke,  but  who  would  point 
the  way  whenever  the  pilgrims  were  faint  or  dis- 
couraged. When  they  reached  the  spot  where  the 
temple  was  afterwards  built,  he  struck  his  staff  into 
the  earth  and  vanished. 

At  Hydesville,  near  Palmyra,  spiritualism,  as  it  is 
commonly  called,  came  into  being  on  March  31, 
1 849,  when  certain  of  the  departed  announced  them- 
selves by  thumping  on  doors  and  tables  in  the  house 
of  the  Fox  family,  the  survivors  of  which  confessed 
the  fraud  nearly  forty  years  after.  It  is  of  interest 
to  note  that  the  ground  whence  these  new  religions 
sprang  was  peopled  by  the  Onondagas,  the  sacerdotal 
class  of  the  Algonquin  tribe,  who  have  preserved  the 
ancient  religious  rites  of  that  great  family  until  this  day. 
72 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

A   VILLAIN'S   CREMATION 

BRAMLEY'S  Mountain,  near  the  present  village 
of  Bloomfield,  New  York,  on  the  edge  of  the 
Catskill  group,  was  the  home  of  a  young  couple 
that  had  married  with  rejoicing  and  had  taken  up 
the  duties  and  pleasures  of  housekeeping  with  en- 
thusiasm. To  be  sure,  in  those  days  housekeeping 
was  not  a  thing  to  be  much  afraid  of,  and  the  servant 
question  had  not  come  up  for  discussion.  The 
housewives  did  the  work  themselves,  and  the  hus- 
band had  no  valets.  The  domicile  of  this  particular 
pair  was  merely  a  tent  of  skins  stretched  around  a 
frame  of  poles,  and  their  furniture  consisted  princi- 
pally of  furs  strewn  over  the  earth  floor ;  but  they 
loved  each  other  truly.  The  girl  was  thankful  to 
be  taken  from  her  home  to  live,  because,  up  to  the 
time  of  her  marriage,  she  had  been  persecuted  by  a 
morose  and  ill-looking  fellow  of  her  tribe,  who  laid 
siege  to  her  affection  with  such  vehemence  that  the 
more  he  pleaded  the  greater  was  her  dislike ;  and 
now  she  hoped  that  she  had  seen  the  last  of  him. 
But  that  was  not  to  be.  He  lurked  about  the  wig- 
wam of  the  pair,  torturing  himself  with  the  sight 
of  their  felicity,  and  awaiting  his  chance  to  prove 
his  hate. 

This  chance  came  when  the  husband  had  gone  to 
Lake  Delaware  to  fish,  for  he  rowed  after  and  gave 
battle  in  the   middle  of  the  pond.      Taken  by  sur- 
prise, and   being   insufficiently   armed,  the   husband 
73 


Myths  and  Legends 

was  killed  and  his  body  flung  into  the  water.  Then, 
casting  an  affectionate  leer  at  the  wife  who  had 
watched  this  act  of  treachery  and  malice  with  speech- 
less horror  from  the  mountain-side,  he  drove  his 
canoe  ashore  and  set  off  in  pursuit  of  her.  She  re- 
treated so  slowly  as  to  allow  him  to  keep  her  in 
sight,  and  when  she  entered  a  cave  he  pressed  for- 
ward eagerly,  believing  that  now  her  escape  was  im- 
possible ;  but  she  had  purposely  trapped  him  there, 
for  she  had  already  explored  a  tortuous  passage  that 
led  to  the  upper  air,  and  by  this  she  had  left  the 
cavern  in  safety  while  he  was  groping  and  calling  in 
the  dark.  Returning  to  the  entrance,  she  loosened, 
by  a  jar,  a  ledge  that  overhung  it,  so  that  the  door 
was  almost  blocked  ;  then,  gathering  light  wood  from 
the  dry  trees  around  her,  she  made  a  fire  and  hurled 
the  burning  sticks  into  the  prison  where  the  wretch 
was  howling,  until  he  was  dead  in  smoke  and  flame. 
When  his  yells  and  curses  had  been  silenced  she  told 
a  friend  what  she  had  done,  then  going  back  to  the 
lake,  she  sang  her  death-song  and  cast  herself  into  the 
water,  hoping  thus  to  rejoin  her  husband. 


THE  MONSTER   MOSQUITO 

THEY  have  some  pretty  big  mosquitoes  in  New 
Jersey  and  on  Long  Island,  but,  if  report  of 
their  ancestry  is  true,  they  have  degenerated  in  size 
and  voracity ;  for  the  grandfather  of  all  mosquitoes 
used  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fort  Onondaga, 
74 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

New  York,  and  sallying  out  whenever  he  was  hun- 
gry, would  eat  an  Indian  or  two  and  pick  his  teeth 
with  their  ribs.  The  red  men  had  no  arms  that 
could  prevail  against  it,  but  at  last  the  Holder  of  the 
Heavens,  hearing  their  cry  for  aid,  came  down  and 
attacked  the  insect.  Finding  that  it  had  met  its 
match,  the  mosquito  flew  away  so  rapidly  that  its 
assailant  could  hardly  keep  it  in  sight.  It  flew 
around  the  great  lake,  then  turned  eastward  again. 
It  sought  help  vainly  of  the  witches  that  brooded  in 
the  sink-holes,  or  Green  Lakes  (near  Janesville,  New 
York),  and  had  reached  the  salt  lake  of  Onondaga 
when  its  pursuer  came  up  and  killed  it,  the  creature 
piling  the  sand  into  hills  in  its  dying  struggles. 

As  its  blood  poured  upon  the  earth  it  became 
small  mosquitoes,  that  gathered  about  the  Holder 
of  the  Heavens  and  stung  him  so  sorely  that  he 
half  repented  the  service  that  he  had  done  to  men. 
The  Tuscaroras  say  that  this  was  one  of  two  mon- 
sters that  stood  on  opposite  banks  of  the  Seneca 
River  and  slew  all  men  that  passed.  Hiawatha 
killed  the  other  one.  On  their  reservation  is  a 
stone,  marked  by  the  form  of  the  Sky  Holder,  that 
shows  where  he  rested  during  the  chase,  while  his 
tracks  were  until  lately  seen  south  of  Syracuse,  alter- 
nating with  footprints  of  the  mosquito,  which  were 
shaped  like  those  of  a  bird,  and  twenty  inches  long. 
At  Brighton,  New  York,  where  these  marks  ap- 
peared, they  were  reverentially  renewed  by  the  In- 
dians for  many  years. 

75 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   GREEN  PICTURE 

IN  a  cellar  in  Green  Street,  Schenectady,  there 
appeared,  some  years  ago,  the  silhouette  of  a 
human  form,  painted  on  the  floor  in  mould.  It  was 
swept  and  scrubbed  away,  but  presently  it  was  there 
again,  and  month  by  month,  after  each  removal,  it 
returned  :  a  mass  of  fluffy  mould,  always  in  the  shape 
of  a  recumbent  man.  When  it  was  found  that  the 
house  stood  on  the  site  of  the  old  Dutch  burial 
ground,  the  gossips  fitted  this  and  that  together  and 
concluded  that  the  mould  was  planted  by  a  spirit 
whose  mortal  part  was  put  to  rest  a  century  and 
more  ago,  on  the  spot  covered  by  the  house,  and 
that  the  spirit  took  this  way  of  apprising  people 
that  they  were  trespassing  on  its  grave.  Others 
held  that  foul  play  had  been  done,  and  that  a  corpse, 
hastily  and  shallowly  buried,  was  yielding  itself  back 
to  the  damp  cellar  in  vegetable  form,  before  its  reso- 
lution into  simpler  elements.  But  a  darker  meaning 
was  that  it  was  the  outline  of  a  vampire  that  vainly 
strove  to  leave  its  grave,  and  could  not  because  a 
virtuous  spell  had  been  worked  about  the  place. 

A  vampire  is  a  dead  man  who  walks  about  seeking 
for  those  whose  blood  he  can  suck,  for  only  by  sup- 
plying new  life  to  its  cold  limbs  can  he  keep  the 
privilege  of  moving  about  the  earth.  He  fights  his 
way  from  his  coffin,  and  those  who  meet  his  gray 
and  stiffened  shape,  with  fishy  eyes  and  blackened 
mouth,  lurking  by  open  windows,  biding  his  time  to 
76 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

steal  in  and  drink  up  a  human  life,  fly  from  him  in 
terror  and  disgust.  In  northern  Rhode  Island  those 
who  die  of  consumption  are  believed  to  be  victims 
of  vampires  who  work  by  charm,  draining  the  blood 
by  slow  draughts  as  they  lie  in  their  graves.  To 
lay  this  monster  he  must  be  taken  up  and  burned ; 
at  least,  his  heart  must  be ;  and  he  must  be  disin- 
terred in  the  daytime  when  he  is  asleep  and  un- 
aware. If  he  died  with  blood  in  his  heart  he  has 
this  power  of  nightly  resurrection.  As  late  as  1892 
the  ceremony  of  heart-burning  was  performed  at 
Exeter,  Rhode  Island,  to  save  the  family  of  a  dead 
woman  that  was  threatened  with  the  same  disease 
that  removed  her,  namely,  consumption.  But  the 
Schenectady  vampire  has  yielded  up  all  his  sub- 
stance, and  the  green  picture  is  no  more. 

THE   NUNS   OF   CARTHAGE 

AT  Carthage,  New  York,  where  the  Black  River 
bends  gracefully  about  a  point,  there  was  a 
stanch  old  house,  built  in  the  colonial  fashion  and 
designed  for  the  occupancy  of  some  family  of  hos- 
pitality and  wealth,  but  the  family  died  out  or  moved 
away,  and  for  some  years  it  remained  deserted.  During 
the  war  of  1812  the  village  gossips  were  excited  by 
the  appearance  of  carpenters,  painters  and  uphol- 
sterers, and  it  was  evident  that  the  place  was  to  be 
restored  to  its  manorial  dignities ;  but  their  curiosity 
was  deepened  instead  of  satisfied  when,  after  the 
77 


Myths  and  Legends 

house  had  been  put  in  order  and  high  walls  built 
around  it,  the  occupants  presented  themselves  as  four 
young  women  in  the  garb  of  nuns.  Were  they  daugh- 
ters of  the  family  ?  Were  they  English  sympathizers 
in  disguise,  seeking  asylum  in  the  days  of  trouble  ? 
Had  they  registered  a  vow  of  celibacy  until  their 
lovers  should  return  from  the  war  ?  Were  they  on 
a  secret  and  diplomatic  errand  ?  None  ever  knew, 
at  least  in  Carthage.  The  nuns  lived  in  great  pri- 
vacy, but  in  a  luxury  before  unequalled  in  that  part 
of  the  country.  They  kept  a  gardener,  they  received 
from  New  York  wines  and  delicacies  that  others  could 
not  afford,  and  when  they  took  the  air,  still  veiled, 
it  was  behind  a  splendid  pair  of  bays. 

One  afternoon,  just  after  the  close  of  the  war,  & 
couple  of  young  American  officers  went  to  the  con- 
vent, and,  contrary  to  all  precedent,  were  admitted. 
They  remained  within  all  that  day,  and  no  one  saw 
them  leave,  but  a  sound  of  wheels  passed  through  the 
street  that  evening.  Next  day  there  were  no  signs 
of  life  about  the  place,  nor  the  day  following,  nor 
the  next.  The  savage  dog  was  quiet  and  the  garden 
walks  had  gone  unswept.  Some  neighbors  climbed 
over  the  wall  and  reported  that  the  place  had  been 
deserted.  Why  and  by  whom  no  one  ever  knew, 
but  a  cloud  remained  upon  its  title  until  a  recent  day, 
for  it  was  thought  that  at  some  time  the  nuns  might 
return. 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

THE    SKULL   IN   THE   WALL 

A  SKULL  is  built  into  the  wall  above  the  door 
of  the  court-house  at  Goshen,  New  York.  It 
was  taken  from  a  coffin  unearthed  in  1842,  when 
the  foundation  of  the  building  was  laid.  People 
said  there  was  no  doubt  about  it,  only  Claudius 
Smith  could  have  -worn  that  skull,  and  he  deserved 
to  be  publicly  pilloried  in  that  manner.  Before  the 
Revolutionary  war  Smith  was  a  farmer  in  Monroe, 
New  York,  and  being  prosperous  enough  to  feel  the 
king's  taxes  no  burden,  to  say  nothing  of  his  jealousy 
of  the  advantage  that  an  independent  government 
would  be  to  the  hopes  of  his  poorer  neighbors,  he 
declared  for  the  king.  After  the  declaration  of  in- 
dependence had  been  published,  his  sympathies  were 
illustrated  in  an  unpleasantly  practical  manner  by 
gathering  a  troop  of  other  Tories  about  him,  and, 
emboldened  by  the  absence  of  most  of  the  men  of 
his  vicinage  in  the  colonial  army,  he  began  to  harass 
the  country  as  grievously  in  foray  as  the  red-coats 
were  doing  in  open  field. 

He  pillaged  houses  and  barns,  then  burned  them ; 
he  insulted  women,  he  drove  away  cattle  and  horses, 
he  killed  several  persons  who  had  undertaken  to  de- 
fend their  property.  His  "  campaigns"  were  man- 
aged with  such  secrecy  that  nobody  knew  when  or 
whence  to  look  for  him.  His  murder  of  Major 
Nathaniel  Strong,  of  Blooming  Grove,  roused  indig- 
nation to  such  a  point  that  a  united  effort  was  made 
79 


Myths  and  Legends 

to  catch  him,  a  money  reward  for  success  acting  as  a 
stimulus  to  the  vigilance  of  the  hunters,  and  at  last 
he  was  captured  on  Long  Island.  He  was  sent  back 
to  Goshen,  tried,  convicted,  and  on  January  22, 
1779,  was  hanged,  with  five  of  his  band.  The 
bodies  of  the  culprits  were  buried  in  the  jail-yard, 
on  the  spot  where  the  court-house  stands,  and  old 
residents  identified  Smith's  skeleton,  when  it  was 
accidentally  exhumed,  by  its  uncommon  size.  A 
farmer  from  an  adjacent  town  made  off  with  a  thigh 
bone,  and  a  mason  clapped  mortar  into  the  empty 
skull  and  cemented  it  into  the  wall,  where  it  long 
remained. 

THE   HAUNTED   MILL 

AMONG  the  settlers  in  the  Adirondacks,  forty  or 
fifty  years  ago,  was  Henry  Clymer,  from  Brook- 
lyn, who  went  up  to  Little  Black  Creek  and  tried  to 
make  a  farm  out  of  the  gnarly,  stumpy  land  ;  but  being 
a  green  hand  at  that  sort  of  thing,  he  soon  gave  it  up 
and  put  up  the  place  near  Northwood,  that  is  locally 
referred  to  as  the  haunted  mill.  When  the  first  slab 
was  cut,  a  big  party  was  on  hand  to  cheer  and  eat 
pie  in  honor  of  the  Clymers,  for  Mr.  Clymer,  who 
was  a  dark,  hearty,  handsome  fellow,  and  his  bright 
young  wife  had  been  liberal  in  their  hospitality. 
The  couple  had  made  some  talk,  they  were  so  loving 
before  folks — too  loving  to  last ;  and,  besides,  it  was 
evident  that  Mrs.  Clymer  was  used  to  a  better  station 
in  life  than  her  husband.  It  was  while  the  crowd 
80 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

was  laughing  and  chattering  at  the  picnic-table  of 
new  boards  from  the  mill  that  Mrs.  Clymer  stole 
away  to  her  modest  little  house,  and  a  neighbor  who 
had  followed  her  was  an  accidental  witness  to  a  sin- 
gular episode.  Mrs.  Clymer  was  kneeling  beside  her 
bed,  crying  over  the  picture  of  a  child,  when  Clymer 
entered  unexpectedly  and  attempted  to  take  the  picture 
from  her. 

She  faced  him  defiantly.  "  You  kept  that  because 
it  looked  like  him,  I  reckon,"  he  said.  "  You  might 
run  back  to  him.  You  know  what  he'd  call  you  and 
where  you'd  stand  with  your  aristocracy." 

The  woman  pointed  to  the  door,  and  the  man  left 
without  another  word,  and  so  did  the  listener.  Next 
morning  the  body  of  Mrs.  Clymer  was  found  hang- 
ing to  a  beam  in  the  mill.  At  the  inquest  the  hus- 
band owned  that  he  had  "  had  a  few  words"  with 
her  on  the  previous  day,  and  thought  that  she  must 
have  suddenly  become  insane.  The  jury  took  this 
view.  News  of  the  suicide  was  printed  in  some  of 
the  city  papers,  and  soon  after  that  the  gossips  had 
another  sensation,  for  a  fair-haired  man,  also  from 
Brooklyn,  arrived  at  the  place  and  asked  where  the 
woman  was  buried.  When  he  found  the  grave  he 
sat  beside  it  for  some  time,  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand  ;  then  he  inquired  for  Clymer,  but  Clymer, 
deadly  pale,  had  gone  into  the  woods  as  soon  as  he 
heard  that  a  stranger  had  arrived.  The  new-comer 
went  to  Trenton,  where  he  ordered  a  gravestone 
bearing  the  single  word  "  Estella"  to  be  placed 
6  81 


Myths  and  Legends 

where  the  woman's  body  had  been  interred.  Clymer 
quickly  sold  out  and  disappeared.  The  mill  never 
prospered,  and  has  long  been  in  a  ruinous  condition. 
People  of  the  neighborhood  think  that  the  ghost  of 
Mrs.  Clymer — was  that  her  name  ? — still  troubles  it, 
and  they  pass  the  place  with  quickened  steps. 


OLD   INDIAN   FACE 

ON  Lower  Ausable  Pond  is  a  large,  ruddy  rock 
showing  a  huge  profile,  with  another,  resem- 
bling a  pappoose,  below  it.  When  the  Tahawi  ruled 
this  region  their  sachem  lived  here  at  "  the  Dark 
Cup,"  as  they  called  this  lake,  a  man  renowned  for 
virtue  and  remarkable,  in  his  age,  for  gentleness. 
When  his  children  had  died  and  his  manly  grand- 
son, who  was  the  old  man's  hope,  had  followed 
them  to  the  land  of  the  cloud  mountains,  Adota's 
heart  withered  within  him,  and  standing  beneath 
this  rock,  he  addressed  his  people,  recounting  what 
he  had  done  for  them,  how  he  had  swept  their 
enemies  from  the  Lakes  of  the  Clustered  Stars  (the 
Lower  Saranac)  and  Silver  Sky  (Upper  Saranac) 
to  the  Lake  of  Wandah,  gaining  a  land  where  they 
might  hunt  and  fish  in  peace.  The  little  one,  the 
Star,  had  been  ravished  away  to  crown  the  brow  of 
the  thunder  god,  who,  even  now,  was  advancing 
across  the  peaks,  bending  the  woods  and  lighting 
the  valleys  with  his  jagged  torches. 

Life  was  nothing  to  him  longer ;  he  resigned  it. 
82 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

As  he  spoke  these  words  he  fell  back,  and  the 
breath  passed  out  of  him.  Then  came  the  thunder 
god,  and  with  an  appalling  burst  of  fire  sent  the 
people  cowering.  The  roar  that  followed  seemed 
to  shake  the  earth,  but  the  medicine-man  of  the 
tribe  stood  still,  listening  to  the  speech  of  the  god 
in  the  clouds.  "  Tribe  of  the  Tahawi,"  he  trans- 
lated, "  Adota  treads  the  star-path  to  the  happy 
hunting-grounds,  and  the  sun  is  shining  on  his  heart. 
He  will  never  walk  among  you  again,  but  the  god 
loves  both  him  and  you,  and  he  will  set  his  face  on 
the  mountains.  Look !"  And,  raising  their  eyes, 
they  beheld  the  likeness  of  Adota  and  of  his  beloved 
child,  the  Star,  graven  by  lightning-stroke  on  the 
cliff.  There  they  buried  the  body  of  Adota  and 
held  their  solemn  festivals  until  the  white  men  drove 
them  out  of  the  country. 

THE   DIVISION   OF   THE   SARANACS 

IN  the  middle  of  the  last  century  a  large  body  of 
Saranac  Indians  occupied  the  forests  of  the 
Upper  Saranac  through  which  ran  the  Indian 
carrying-place,  called  by  them  the  Eagle  Nest 
Trail.  Whenever  they  raided  the  Tahawi  on  the 
slopes  of  Mount  Tahawus  (Sky-splitter),  there  was 
a  pleasing  rivalry  between  two  young  athletes,  called 
the  Wolf  and  the  Eagle,  as  to  which  would  carry 
off  the  more  scalps,  and  the  tribe  was  divided  in 
admiration  of  them.  There  was  one  who  did  not 
83 


Myths  and  Legends 

share  this  liking :  an  old  sachem,  one  of  the  wizards 
who  had  escaped  when  the  Great  Spirit  locked  these 
workers  of  evil  in  the  hollow  trees  that  stood  beside 
the  trail.  In  their  struggles  to  escape  the  less  for- 
tunate ones  thrust  their  arms  through  the  closing 
bark,  and  they  are  seen  there,  as  withered  trunks  and 
branches,  to  this  day.  Oquarah  had  not  been  soft- 
ened by  this  exhibition  of  danger  nor  the  qualifi- 
cation of  mercy  that  allowed  him  still  to  exist. 
Rather  he  was  more  bitter  when  he  saw,  as  he 
fancied,  that  the  tribe  thought  more  of  the  daring 
and  powerful  warriors  than  it  did  of  the  bent  and 
malignant-minded  counsellor. 

It  was  in  the  moon  of  green  leaves  that  the  two 
young  men  set  off  to  hunt  the  moose,  and  on  the 
next  day  the  Wolf  returned  alone.  He  explained 
that  in  the  hunt  they  had  been  separated  ;  he  had 
called  for  hours  for  his  friend,  and  had  searched  so 
long  that  he  concluded  he  must  have  returned  ahead 
of  him.  But  he  was  not  at  the  camp.  Up  rose 
the  sachem  with  visage  dark.  "  I  hear  a  forked 
tongue,"  he  cried.  "  The  Wolf  was  jealous  of  the 
Eagle  and  his  teeth  have  cut  into  his  heart." 

"  The  Wolf  cannot  lie,"  answered  the  young 
man. 

"  Where  is  the  Eagle  ?"  angrily  shouted  the 
sachem,  clutching  his  hatchet. 

"  The  Wolf  has  said,"  replied  the  other. 

The  old  sachem  advanced  upon  him,  but  as  he 
raised  his  axe  to  strike,  the  wife  of  the  Wolf  threw 
84 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

herself  before  her  husband,  and  the  steel  sank  into 
her  brain.  The  sachem  fell  an  instant  later  with 
the  Wolf's  knife  in  his  heart,  and  instantly  the  camp 
was  in  turmoil.  Before  the  day  had  passed  it  had 
been  broken  up,  and  the  people  were  divided  into 
factions,  for  it  was  no  longer  possible  to  hold  it 
together  in  peace.  The  Wolf,  with  half  of  the 
people,  went  down  the  Sounding  River  to  new 
hunting-grounds,  and  the  earth  that  separated  the 
families  was  reddened  whenever  one  side  met  the 
other. 

Years  had  passed  when,  one  morning,  the  upper 
tribe  saw  a  canoe  advancing  across  the  Lake  of  the 
Silver  Sky.  An  old  man  stepped  from  it :  he  was 
the  Eagle.  After  the  Wolf  had  left  him  he  had 
fallen  into  a  cleft  in  a  rock,  and  had  lain  helpless 
until  found  by  hunters  who  were  on  their  way  to 
Canada.  He  had  joined  the  British  against  the 
French,  had  married  a  northern  squaw,  but  had 
returned  to  die  among  the  people  of  his  early  love. 
Deep  was  his  sorrow  that  his  friend  should  have 
been  accused  of  doing  him  an  injury,  and  that  the 
once  happy  tribe  should  have  been  divided  by  that 
allegation.  The  warriors  and  sachems  of  both 
branches  were  summoned  to  a  council,  and  in  his 
presence  they  swore  a  peace,  so  that  in  the  fulness 
of  time  he  was  able  to  die  content.  That  peace 
was  always  kept. 


Myths  and  Legends 

AN   EVENT   IN   INDIAN    PARK 

IT  was  during  the  years  when  the  Saranacs  were 
divided  that  Howling  Wind,  one  of  the  young 
men  of  Indian  Carry,  saw  and  fell  in  love  with  a 
girl  of  the  family  on  Tupper  Lake.  He  quickly 
found  a  way  to  tell  his  liking,  and  the  couple  met 
often  in  the  woods  and  on  the  shore.  He  made 
bold  to  row  her  around  the  quieter  bays,  and  one 
moonlight  evening  he  took  her  to  Devil's  Rock,  or 
Devil's  Pulpit,  where  he  told  her  the  story  of  the 
place.  This  was  to  the  effect  that  the  fiend  had 
paddled,  on  timbers,  by  means  of  his  tail,  to  that 
rock,  and  had  assembled  fish  and  game  about  him  in 
large  numbers  by  telling  them  that  he  was  going  to 
preach  to  them,  instead  of  which  moral  procedure  he 
pounced  upon  and  ate  all  that  were  within  his  grasp. 
As  so  often  happened  in  Indian  history,  the  return 
of  these  lovers  was  seen  by  a  disappointed  rival, 
who  had  hurried  back  to  camp  and  secured  the  aid 
of  half  a  dozen  men  to  arrest  the  favored  one  as 
soon  as  he  should  land.  The  capture  was  made 
after  a  struggle,  and  Howling  Wind  was  dragged  to 
the  chief's  tent  for  sentence.  That  sentence  was 
death,  and  with  a  refinement  of  cruelty  that  was 
rare  even  among  the  Indians,  the  girl  was  ordered 
to  execute  it.  She  begged  and  wept  to  no  avail. 
An  axe  was  put  into  her  hands,  and  she  was  ordered 
to  despatch  the  prisoner.  She  took  the  weapon ; 
her  face  grew  stern  and  the  tears  dried  on  her 
86 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

cheeks ;  her  lover,  bound  to  a  tree,  gazed  at  her 
in  amazement ;  his  rival  watched,  almost  in  glee. 
Slowly  the  girl  crossed  the  open  space  to  her  lover. 
She  raised  the  tomahawk  and  at  a  blow  severed  the 
thongs  that  held  him,  then,  like  a  flash,  she  leaped 
upon  his  rival,  who  had  sprung  forward  to  interfere, 
and  clove  his  skull  with  a  single  stroke.  The  lovers 
fled  as  only  those  can  fly  who  run  for  life.  Happily 
for  them,  they  met  a  party  from  the  Carry  coming 
to  rescue  Howling  Wind  from  the  danger  to  which 
his  courtship  had  exposed  him,  and  it  was  even  said 
that  this  party  entered  the  village  and  by  presenting 
knives  and  arrows  at  the  breast  of  the  chief  obtained 
his  now  superfluous  consent  to  the  union  of  the 
fugitives.  The  pair  reached  the  Carry  in  safety  and 
lived  a  long  and  happy  life  together. 

THE   INDIAN    PLUME 

RIGHTEST  flower  that  grows  beside  the  brooks 
is  the  scarlet  blossom  of  the  Indian  plume  :  the 
blood  of  Lenawee.  Hundreds  of  years  ago  she  lived 
happily  among  her  brother  and  sister  Saranacs  beside 
Stony  Creek,  the  Stream  of  the  Snake,  and  was  soon 
to  marry  the  comely  youth  who,  for  the  speed  of 
his  foot,  was  called  the  Arrow.  But  one  summer 
the  Quick  Death  came  on  the  people,  and  as  the 
viewless  devil  stalked  through  the  village  young  and 
old  fell  before  him.  The  Arrow  was  the  first  to 
die.  In  vain  the  Prophet  smoked  the  Great  Calu- 


Myths  and  Legends 

met :  its  smoke  ascending  took  no  shape  that  he 
could  read.  In  vain  was  the  white  dog  killed  to 
take  aloft  the  people's  sins.  But  at  last  the  Great 
Spirit  himself  came  down  to  the  mountain  called 
the  Storm  Darer,  splendid  in  lightning,  awful  in 
his  thunder  voice  and  robe  of  cloud.  "  My  wrath 
is  against  you  for  your  sins,"  he  cried,  "  and  naught 
but  human  blood  will  appease  it." 

In  the  morning  the  Prophet  told  his  message,  and 
all  sat  silent  for  a  time.  Then  Lenawee  entered 
the  circle.  "  Lenawee  is  a  blighted  flower,"  she 
sobbed.  "  Let  her  blood  flow  for  her  people." 
And  catching  a  knife  from  the  Prophet's  belt,  she 
ran  with  it  to  the  stream  on  which  she  and  the 
Arrow  had  so  often  floated  in  their  canoe.  In  an- 
other moment  her  blood  had  bedewed  the  earth. 
"  Lay  me  with  the  Arrow,"  she  murmured,  and, 
smiling  in  their  sad  faces,  breathed  her  last.  The 
demon  of  the  quick  death  shrank  from  the  spot,  and 
the  Great  Spirit  smiled  once  more  on  the  tribe  that 
could  produce  such  heroism.  Lenawee's  body  was 
placed  beside  her  lover's,  and  next  morning,  where 
her  blood  had  spilt,  the  ground  was  pure,  and  on  it 
grew  in  slender  spires  a  new  flower, — the  Indian 
plume :  the  transformed  blood  of  sacrifice.  The 
people  loved  that  flower  in  all  years  after.  They 
decked  their  hair  and  dresses  with  it  and  made  a 
feast  in  its  honor.  When  parents  taught  their  chil- 
dren the  beauty  of  unselfishness  they  used  as  its 
emblem  a  stalk  of  Indian  plume. 
88 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

BIRTH   OF   THE   WATER-LILY 

BACK  from  his  war  against  the  Tahawi  comes 
the  Sun,  chief  of  the  Lower  Saranacs, — back  to 
the  Lake  of  the  Clustered  Stars,  afterward  called,  by 
dullards,  Tupper's  Lake.  Tall  and  invincible  he 
comes  among  his  people,  boasting  of  his  victories, 
Indian  fashion,  and  stirring  the  scalps  that  hang  at 
his  breast.  "  The  Eagle  screams,"  he  cries.  "  He 
greets  the  chief,  the  Blazing  Sun.  Wayotah  has 
made  the  Tahawi  tremble.  They  fly  from  him. 
Hooh,  hooh !  He  is  the  chief."  Standing  apart 
with  wistful  glance  stands  Oseetah,  the  Bird.  She 
loves  the  strong  young  chief,  but  she  knows  that 
another  has  his  promise,  and  she  dares  not  hope ; 
yet  the  chief  loves  her,  and  when  the  feasting  is 
over  he  follows  her  footprints  to  the  shore,  where 
he  sees  her  canoe  turning  the  point  of  an  island. 
He  silently  pursues  and  comes  upon  her  as  she  sits 
waving  and  moaning.  He  tries  to  embrace  her,  but 
she  draws  apart.  He  asks  her  to  sing  to  him  ;  she 
bids  him  begone. 

He  takes  a  more  imperious  tone  and  orders  her 
to  listen  to  her  chief.  She  moves  away.  He  darts 
toward  her.  Turning  on  him  a  face  of  sorrow,  she 
runs  to  the  edge  of  a  steep  rock  and  waves  him 
back.  He  hastens  after.  Then  she  springs  and 
disappears  in  the  deep  water.  The  Sun  plunges 
after  her  and  swims  with  mad  strength  here  and 
there.  He  calls.  There  is  no  answer.  Slowly 
89 


Myths  and  Legends 

he  returns  to  the  village  and  tells  the  people  what 
has  happened.  The  Bird's  parents  are  stricken  and 
the  Sun  moans  in  his  sleep.  At  noon  a  hunter 
comes  in  with  strange  tidings :  flowers  are  growing 
on  the  water !  The  people  go  to  their  canoes  and 
row  to  the  Island  of  Elms.  There,  in  a  cove,  the 
still  water  is  enamelled  with  flowers,  some  as  white 
as  snow,  filling  the  air  with  perfume,  others  strong 
and  yellow,  like  the  lake  at  sunset. 

"  Explain  to  us,"  they  cry,  turning  to  the  old 
Medicine  of  his  tribe,  "  for  this  was  not  so  yester- 
day." "  It  is  our  daughter,"  he  answered.  "  These 
flowers  are  the  form  she  takes.  The  white  is  her 
purity,  the  yellow  her  love.  You  shall  see  that  her 
heart  will  close  when  the  sun  sets,  and  will  reopen 
at  his  coming."  And  the  young  chief  went  apart 
and  bowed  his  head. 

ROGERS'S  SLIDE 

THE  shores  of  Lakes  George  and  Champlain  were 
ravaged  by  war.  Up  and  down  those  lovely 
waters  swept  the  barges  of  French  and  English,  and 
the  green  hills  rang  to  the  shrill  of  bugles,  the  boom 
of  cannon,  and  the  yell  of  savages.  Fiction  and  his- 
tory have  been  weft  across  the  woods  and  the  mem- 
ory of  deeds  still  echoes  among  the  heights.  It  was 
at  Glen's  Falls,  in  the  cave  on  the  rock  in  the  middle 
of  the  river,  that  the  brave  Uncas  held  the  watch 
with  Hawkeye.  Bloody  Defile  and  Bloody  Pond, 
9° 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

between  there  and  Lake  George,  take  their  names 
from  the  "  Bloody  morning  scout"  sent  out  by  Sir 
William  Johnson  on  a  September  day  in  1755  to 
check  Dieskau  until  Fort  William  Henry  could  be 
completed.  In  the  action  that  ensued,  Colonel  Wil- 
liams, founder  of  Williams  College,  and  Captain 
Grant,  of  the  Connecticut  line,  great-grandfather  of 
the  President  who  bore  that  name,  were  killed.  The 
victims,  dead  and  wounded  alike,  having  been  flung 
into  Bloody  Pond,  it  was  thick  and  red  for  days,  and 
tradition  said  that  in  after  years  it  resumed  its  hue  of 
crimson  at  sunset  and  held  it  until  dawn.  The  cap- 
tured, who  were  delivered  to  the  Indians,  had  little 
to  hope,  for  their  white  allies  could  not  stay  their 
savagery.  Blind  Rock  was  so  called  because  the  In- 
dians brought  a  white  man  there,  and  tearing  his  eyes 
out,  flung  them  into  embers  at  the  foot  of  the  stone. 
Captives  were  habitually  tortured,  blazing  splinters 
of  pine  being  thrust  into  their  flesh,  their  nails  torn 
out,  and  their  bodies  slashed  with  knives  before  they 
went  to  the  stake.  An  English  prisoner  was  allowed 
to  run  the  gauntlet  here.  They  had  already  begun 
to  strike  at  him  as  he  sped  between  the  lines,  when 
he  seized  a  pappoose,  flung  it  on  a  fire,  and,  in  the  in- 
stant of  confusion  that  followed,  snatched  an  axe,  cut 
the  bonds  of  a  comrade  who  had  been  doomed  to  die, 
and  both  escaped. 

But  the  best-known  history  of  this  region  is  that 
of  Rogers's  Rock,  or  Rogers's  Slide,  a  lofty  preci- 
pice at  the  lower  end  of  Lake  George.    Major  Rogers 
9' 


Myths  and  Legends 

did  not  toboggan  down  this  rock  in  leather  trousers, 
but  his  escape  was  no  less  remarkable  than  if  he  had. 
On  March  13,  1758,  while  reconnoitring  near  Ticon- 
deroga  with  two  hundred  rangers,  he  was  surprised  by 
a  force  of  French  and  Indians.  But  seventeen  of  his 
men  escaped  death  or  capture,  and  he  was  pursued 
nearly  to  the  brink  of  this  cliff.  During  a  brief  delay 
among  the  red  men,  arising  from  the  loss  of  his  trail, 
he  had  time  to  throw  his  pack  down  the  slide,  reverse 
his  snow-shoes,  and  go  back  over  his  own  track  to  the 
head  of  a  ravine  before  they  emerged  from  the  woods, 
and,  seeing  that  his  shoe-marks  led  to  the  rock,  while 
none  pointed  back,  they  concluded  that  he  had  flung 
himself  off  and  committed  suicide  to  avoid  capture. 
Great  was  their  disappointment  when  they  saw  the 
major  on  the  frozen  surface  of  the  lake  beneath 
going  at  a  lively  rate  toward  Fort  William  Henry. 
He  had  gained  the  ice  by  way  of  the  cleft  in  the 
rocks,  but  the  savages,  believing  that  he  had  leaped 
over  the  precipice,  attributed  his  preservation  to  the 
Great  Spirit  and  forbore  to  fire  on  him.  Uncon- 
sciously, he  had  chosen  the  best  possible  place  to 
disappear  from,  for  the  Indians  held  it  in  supersti- 
tious regard,  believing  that  spirits  haunted  the  wood 
and  hurled  bad  souls  down  the  cliff,  drowning  them 
in  the  lake,  instead  of  allowing  them  to  go  to  the 
happy  hunting  grounds.  The  major  reached  his 
quarters  in  safety,  and  lived  to  take  up  arms  against 
the  land  of  his  birth  when  the  colonies  revolted, 
seventeen  years  later. 

9* 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

THE   FALLS  AT   COHOES 

WHEN  Occuna,  a  young  Seneca,  fell  in  love 
with  a  girl  whose  cabin  was  near  the  pres- 
ent town  of  Cohoes,  he  behaved  very  much  as  Amer- 
icans of  a  later  date  have  done.  He  picked  wild 
flowers  for  her ;  he  played  on  the  bone  pipe  and 
sang  sentimental  songs  in  the  twilight ;  he  roamed 
the  hills  with  her,  gathering  the  loose  quartz  crys- 
tals that  the  Indians  believed  to  be  the  tears  of 
stricken  deer,  save  on  Diamond  Rock,  in  Lansing- 
burgh,  where  they  are  the  tears  of  Moneta,  a  be- 
reaved mother  and  wife ;  and  in  fine  weather  they 
went  boating  on  the  Mohawk  above  the  rapids. 
They  liked  to  drift  idly  on  the  current,  because  it 
gave  them  time  to  gaze  into  each  other's  eyes,  and 
to  build  air  castles  that  they  would  live  in  in  the 
future.  They  were  suddenly  called  to  a  realization 
of  danger  one  evening,  for  the  stream  had  been 
subtly  drawing  them  on  and  on  until  it  had  them 
in  its  power.  The  stroke  of  the  paddle  failed  and 
the  air  castles  fell  in  dismal  ruin.  Sitting  erect  they 
began  their  death-song  in  this  wise  : 

Occuna :  "  Daughter  of  a  mighty  warrior,  the 
Manitou  calls  me  hence.  I  hear  the  roaring  of  his 
voice ;  I  see  the  lightning  of  his  glance  along  the 
river ;  he  walks  in  clouds  and  spray  upon  the 
waters." 

The  Maiden :  "  Thou  art  thyself  a  warrior,  O 
Occuna.  Hath  not  thine  axe  been  often  bathed  in 
93 


Myths  and  Legends 

blood  ?  Hath  the  deer  ever  escaped  thine  arrow  or 
the  beaver  avoided  thy  chase  ?  Thou  wilt  not  fear 
to  go  into  the  presence  of  Manitou." 

Occuna :  "  Manitou,  indeed,  respects  the  strong. 
When  I  chose  thee  from  the  women  of  our  tribe  I 
promised  that  we  should  live  and  die  together.  The 
Thunderer  calls  us  now.  Welcome,  O  ghost  of 
Oriska,  chief  of  the  invincible  Senecas  !  A  warrior 
and  the  daughter  of  a  warrior  come  to  join  you  in 
the  feast  of  the  blessed !" 

The  boat  leaped  over  the  falls,  and  Occuna, 
striking  on  the  rocks  below,  was  killed  at  once ; 
but,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  girl  fell  clear  of  them  and 
was  whirled  on  the  seething  current  to  shoal  water, 
where  she  made  her  escape.  For  his  strength  and 
his  virtues  the  dead  man  was  canonized.  His  tribe 
raised  him  above  the  regions  of  the  moon,  whence 
he  looked  down  on  the  scenes  of  his  youth  with 
pleasure,  and  in  times  of  war  gave  pleasant  dreams 
and  promises  to  his  friends,  while  he  confused  the 
enemy  with  evil  omens.  Whenever  his  tribe  passed 
the  falls  they  halted  and  with  brief  ceremonials 
commemorated  the  death  of  Occuna. 


FRANCIS   WOOLCOTT'S    NIGHT-RIDERS 

IN    Copake,  New    York,  among   the    Berkshire 
Hills,  less  than  a  century  ago,  lived    Francis 
Woolcott,  a  dark,  tall  man,  with  protruding  teeth, 
whose  sinister  laugh   used  to  give  his  neighbors  a 
94 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

creep  along  their  spines.  He  had  no  obvious  trade 
or  calling,  but  the  farmers  feared  him  so  that  he  had 
no  trouble  in  making  levies  :  pork,  flour,  meal,  cider, 
he  could  have  what  he  chose  for  the  asking,  for  had 
he  not  halted  horses  at  the  plow  so  that  neither 
blows  nor  commands  could  move  them  for  two 
hours  ?  Had  he  not  set  farmer  Raught's  pigs  to 
walking  on  their  hind  legs  and  trying  to  talk? 
When  he  shouted  "  Hup  !  hup  !  hup !"  to  farmer 
Williams's  children,  had  they  not  leaped  to  the 
moulding  of  the  parlor  wainscot, — a  yard  above  the 
floor  and  only  an  inch  wide, — and  walked  around  it, 
afterward  skipping  like  birds  from  chair-back  to 
chair-back,  while  the  furniture  stood  as  if  nailed  to 
the  floor  ?  And  was  he  not  the  chief  of  thirteen 
night-riders,  whose  faces  no  man  had  seen,  nor 
wanted  to  see,  and  whom  he  sent  about  the  country 
on  errands  of  mischief  every  night  when  the  moon 
was  growing  old  ?  As  to  moons,  had  he  not  found 
a  mystic  message  from  our  satellite  on  Mount  Riga, 
graven  on  a  meteor  ? 

Horses'  tails  were  tied,  hogs  foamed  at  the  mouth 
and  walked  like  men,  cows  gave  blood  for  milk. 
These  night-riders  met  Woolcott  in  a  grove  of  ash 
and  chestnut  trees,  each  furnished  with  a  stolen 
bundle  of  oat  straw,  and  these  bundles  Woolcott 
changed  to  black  horses  when  the  night  had  grown 
dark  enough  not  to  let  the  way  of  the  change  be 
seen.  These  horses  could  not  cross  streams  of 
water,  and  on  the  stroke  of  midnight  they  fell  to 
95 


Myths  and  Legends 

pieces  and  were  oaten  sheaves  once  more,  but  during 
their  time  of  action  they  rushed  through  woods, 
bearing  their  riders  safely,  and  tore  like  hurricanes 
across  the  fields,  leaping  bushes,  fences,  even  trees, 
without  effort.  Never  could  traces  be  found  of 
them  the  next  day.  At  last  the  devil  came  to  claim 
his  own.  Woolcott,  who  was  ninety  years  old,  lay 
sick  and  helpless  in  his  cabin.  Clergymen  refused 
to  see  him,  but  two  or  three  of  his  neighbors  stifled 
their  fears  and  went  to  the  wizard's  house  to  soothe 
his  dying  moments.  With  the  night  came  storm, 
and  with  its  outbreak  the  old  man's  face  took  on 
such  a  strange  and  horrible  look  that  the  watchers 
fell  back  in  alarm.  There  was  a  burst  of  purple 
flame  at  the  window,  a  frightful  peal,  a  smell  of  sul- 
phur, and  Woolcott  was  dead.  When  the  watchers 
went  out  the  roads  were  dry,  and  none  in  the  village 
had  heard  wind,  rain,  or  thunder.  It  was  the 
coming  of  the  fiend. 

POLLY'S   LOVER 

IN  about  the  middle  of  this  century  a  withered 
woman  of  ninety  was  buried  from  a  now  de- 
serted   house   in  White   Plains,   New   York,   Polly 
Carter  the  name  of  her,  but  "  Crazy  Polly"  was 
what  the  neighbors  called  her,  for  she  was  eccentric 
and  not  fond  of  company.     Among  the  belongings 
of  her  house  was  a  tall  clock,  such  as  relic  hunters 
prize,  that  ticked  solemnly  in  a  landing  on  the  stairs. 
96 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

For  a  time,  during  the  Revolution,  the  house  stood 
within  the  British  lines,  and  as  her  father  was  a 
colonel  in  Washington's  army  she  was  left  almost 
alone  in  it.  The  British  officers  respected  her  sex, 
but  they  had  an  unpleasant  way  of  running  in  un- 
announced and  demanding  entertainment,  in  the 
king's  name,  which  she  felt  forced  to  grant.  One 
rainy  afternoon  the  door  was  flung  open,  then  locked 
on  the  inside,  and  she  found  herself  in  the  arms  of 
a  stalwart,  handsome  lieutenant,  who  wore  the  blue. 
It  was  her  cousin  and  fiance.  Their  glad  talk  had  not 
been  going  long  when  there  came  a  rousing  summons 
at  the  door.  Three  English  officers  were  awaiting 
admittance. 

Perhaps  they  had  seen  Lawrence  Carter  go  into 
the  house,  and  if  caught  he  would  be  killed  as  a  spy. 
He  must  be  hidden,  but  in  some  place  where  they 
would  not  think  of  looking.  The  clock !  That 
was  the  place.  With  a  laugh  and  a  kiss  the  young 
man  submitted  to  be  shut  in  this  narrow  quarter, 
and  throwing  his  coat  and  hat  behind  some  furni- 
ture the  girl  admitted  the  officers,  who  were  wet 
and  surly  and  demanded  dinner.  They  tramped 
about  the  best  room  in  their  muddy  boots,  talking 
loudly,  and  in  order  to  break  the  effect  of  the  chill 
weather  they  passed  the  brandy  bottle  freely.  Polly 
served  them  with  a  dinner  as  quickly  as  possible,  for 
she  wanted  to  get  them  out  of  the  house,  but  they 
were  in  no  mood  to  go,  and  the  bottle  passed  so 
often  that  before  the  dinner  was  over  they  were 
7  97 


Myths  and  Legends 

noisy  and  tipsy  and  were  using  language  that  drove 
Polly  from  the  room. 

At  last,  to  her  relief,  she  heard  them  preparing 
to  leave  the  house,  but  as  they  were  about  to  go  the 
senior  officer,  looking  up  at  the  landing,  now  dim 
in  the  paling  light,  said  to  one  of  the  others,  "  See 
what  time  it  is."  The  officer  addressed,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  the  drunkest  of  the  party,  staggered  up 

the    stair    and    exclaimed,    "  The    d d    thing's 

stopped."  Then,  as  if  he  thought  it  a  good  joke, 
he  added,  "  It'll  never  go  again."  Drawing  his 
sabre  he  gave  the  clock  a  careless  cut  and  ran  the 
blade  through  the  panel  of  the  door ;  after  this  the 
three  passed  out.  When  their  voices  had  died  in 
distant  brawling,  Polly  ran  to  release  her  lover. 
Something  thick  and  dark  was  creeping  from  be- 
neath the  clock-case.  With  trembling  ringers  she 
pulled  open  the  door,  and  Lawrence,  her  lover,  fell 
heavily  forward  into  her  arms,  dead.  The  officer 
was  right :  the  clock  never  went  again. 

CROSBY,  THE   PATRIOT   SPY 

IT  was  at  the  Jay  house,  in  Westchester,  New 
York,  that  Enoch  Crosby  met  Washington  and 
offered  his  services  to  the  patriot  army.  Crosby 
was  a  cobbler,  and  not  a  very  thriving  one,  but  after 
the  outbreak  of  hostilities  he  took  a  peddler's  outfit 
on  his  back  and,  as  a  non-combatant,  of  Tory  sym- 
pathies, he  obtained  admission  through  the  British 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

lines.  After  his  first  visit  to  head  quarters  it  is 
certain  that  he  always  carried  Sir  Henry  Clinton's 
passport  in  the  middle  of  his  pack,  and  so  sure  were 
his  neighbors  that  he  was  in  the  service  of  the 
British  that  they  captured  him  and  took  him  to 
General  Washington,  but  while  his  case  was  up  for 
debate  he  managed  to  slip  his  handcuffs,  which  were 
not  secure,  and  made  off.  Clinton,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  puzzled  by  the  unaccountable  foresight 
of  the  Americans,  for  every  blow  that  he  prepared 
to  strike  was  met,  and  he  lost  time  and  chance  and 
temper.  As  if  the  suspicion  of  both  armies  and 
the  hatred  of  his  neighbors  were  not  enough*  to 
contend  against,  Crosby  now  became  an  object  of 
interest  to  the  Skinners  and  Cowboys,  who  were 
convinced  that  he  was  making  money,  somehow, 
and  resolved  to  have  it. 

The  Skinners  were  camp-followers  of  the  Amer- 
ican troops  and  the  Cowboys  a  band  of  Tories  and 
renegade  British.  Both  factions  were  employed, 
ostensibly,  in  foraging  for  their  respective  armies, 
but,  in  reality,  for  themselves,  and  the  farmers  and 
citizens  occupying  the  neutral  belt  north  of  Man- 
hattan Island  had  reason  to  curse  them  both  impar- 
tially. While  these  fellows  were  daring  thieves, 
they  occasionally  got  the  worst  of  it,  even  in  the 
encounters  with  the  farmers,  as  on  the  Neperan, 
near  Tarrytown,  where  the  Cowboys  chased  a 
woman  to  death,  but  were  afterward  cut  to  pieces 
by  the  enraged  neighbors.  Hers  is  but  one  of  th» 
99 


Myths  and  Legends 

many  ghosts  that  haunt  the  neutral  ground,  and  the 
croaking  of  the  birds  of  ill  luck  that  nest  at  Raven 
rock  is  blended  with  the  cries  of  her  dim  figure. 
Still,  graceless  as  these  fellows  were,  they  affected 
a  loyalty  to  their  respective  sides,  and  were  usually 
willing  to  fight  each  other  when  they  met,  especially 
for  the  plunder  that  was  to  be  got  by  fighting. 

In  October,  1780,  Claudius  Smith,  "king  of  the 
Cowboys,"  and  three  scalawag  sons  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  time  for  Crosby's  money  to 
revert  to  the  crown,  and  they  set  off  toward  his 
little  house  one  evening,  sure  of  finding  him  in,  for 
his  father  was  seriously  ill.  The  Smiths  arrived 
there  to  find  that  the  Skinners  had  preceded  them 
on  the  same  errand,  and  they  recognized  through  the 
windows,  in  the  leader  of  the  band,  a  noted  brigand 
on  whose  head  a  price  was  laid.  He  was  searching 
every  crack  and  cranny  of  the  room,  while  Crosby, 
stripped  to  shirt  and  trousers,  stood  before  the  empty 
fireplace  and  begged  for  that  night  to  be  left  alone 
with  his  dying  father. 

"  To  hell  with  the  old  man  !"  roared  the  Skinner. 
"  Give  up  your  gold,  or  we'll  put  you  to  the  torture," 
and  he  significantly  whirled  the  end  of  a  rope  that 
he  carried  about  his  waist.  At  that  moment  the 
faint  voice  of  the  old  man  was  heard  calling  from 
another  room. 

"  Take  all  that  I  have  and  let  me  go  !"  cried 
Crosby,  and  turning  up  a  brick  in  the  fire-place  he 
disclosed  a  handful  of  gold, — his  life  savings.  The 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

leader  still  tried  to  oppose  his  exit,  but  Crosby  flung 
him  to  the  floor  and  rushed  away  to  his  father,  while 
the  brigand,  deeming  it  well  to  delay  rising,  dug  his 
fingers  into  the  hollow  and  began  to  extract  the  sov- 
ereigns. At  that  instant  four  muskets  were  dis- 
charged from  without :  there  was  a  crash  of  glass,  a 
yell  of  pain,  and  four  of  the  Skinners  rolled  bleeding 
on  the  floor ;  two  others  ran  into  the  darkness  and 
escaped  ;  their  leader,  trying  to  follow,  was  met 
at  the  threshold  by  the  Smiths,  who  clutched  the 
gold  out  of  his  hand  and  pinioned  his  elbows  in  a 
twinkling. 

"  I  thought  ye'd  like  to  know  who's  got  ye,"  said 
old  Smith,  peering  into  the  face  of  the  astonished 
and  crestfallen  robber,  "  for  I've  told  ye  many  a  time 
to  keep  out  of  my  way,  and  now  ye've  got  to  swing 
for  getting  into  it." 

Within  five  minutes  of  the  time  that  he  had  got 
his  clutch  on  Crosby's  money  the  bandit  was  choking 
to  death  at  the  end  of  his  own  rope,  hung  from  the 
limb  of  an  apple-tree,  and,  having  secured  the  gold, 
the  Cowboys  went  their  way  into  the  darkness. 
Crosby  soon  made  his  appearance  in  the  ranks  of 
the  Continentals,  and,  though  they  looked  askant  at 
him  for  a  time,  they  soon  discovered  the  truth  and 
hailed  him  as  a  hero,  for  the  information  he  had 
carried  to  Washington  from  Clinton's  camp  had 
often  saved  them  from  disaster.  He  had  survived 
attack  in  his  own  house  through  the  falling  out  of 
rogues,  and  he  survived  the  work  and  hazard  of  war 

101 


Myths  and  Legends 

through  luck  and  a  sturdy  frame.  Congress  after- 
wards gave  him  a  sum  of  money  larger  than  had 
been  taken  from  him,  for  his  chief  had  commended 
him  in  these  lines  :  "  Circumstances  of  political  im- 
portance, which  involved  the  lives  and  fortunes  of 
many,  have  hitherto  kept  secret  what  this  paper  now 
reveals.  Enoch  Crosby  has  for  years  been  a  faithful 
and  unrequited  servant  of  his  country.  Though 
man  does  not,  God  may  reward  him  for  his  conduct. 
"  GEORGE  WASHINGTON." 

Associated  with  Crosby  in  his  work  of  getting 
information  from  the  enemy  was  a  man  named 
Gainos,  who  kept  an  inn  on  the  neutral  ground, 
that  was  often  raided.  Being  assailed  by  Cowboys 
once,  Gainos,  with  his  tenant  and  stable-boys,  fired 
at  the  bandits  together,  just  as  the  latter  had  forced 
his  front  door,  then  stepping  quickly  forward  he 
slashed  off  the  head  of  the  leader  with  a  cutlass. 
The  retreating  crew  dumped  the  body  into  a  well 
on  the  premises,  and  there  it  sits  on  the  crumbling 
curb  o'  nights  looking  disconsolately  for  its  head. 

It  may  also  be  mentioned  that  the  Skinners  had  a 
chance  to  revenge  themselves  on  the  Cowboys  for 
their  defeat  at  the  Crosby  house.  They  fell  upon 
the  latter  at  the  tent-shaped  cave  in  Yonkers, — it  is 
called  Washington's  Cave,  because  the  general  napped 
there  on  bivouac, — and  not  only  routed  them,  but 
secured  so  much  of  their  treasure  that  they  were  able 
to  be  honest  for  several  years  after. 


102 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

THE   LOST   GRAVE   OF   PAINE 

FAILURE  to  mark  the  resting-places  of  great 
men  and  to  indicate  the  scenes  of  their  deeds 
has  led  to  misunderstanding  and  confusion  among 
those  who  discover  a  regard  for  history  and  tradition 
in  this  practical  age.  Robert  Fulton,  who  made  steam 
navigation  possible,  lies  in  an  unmarked  tomb  in  the 
yard  of  Trinity  Church — the  richest  church  in 
America.  The  stone  erected  to  show  where  Andre 
was  hanged  was  destroyed  by  a  cheap  patriot,  who 
thought  it  represented  a  compliment  to  the  spy. 
The  spot  where  Alexander  Hamilton  was  shot  in 
the  duel  by  Aaron  Burr  is  known  to  few  and  will 
soon  be  forgotten.  It  was  not  until  a  century  of 
obloquy  had  been  heaped  on  the  memory  of  Thomas 
Paine  that  his  once  enemies  were  brought  to  know 
him  as  a  statesman  of  integrity,  a  philanthropist,  and 
philosopher.  His  deistic  religion,  proclaimed  in 
"  The  Age  of  Reason,"  is  unfortunately  no  whit  more 
independent  than  is  preached  in  dozens  of  pulpits 
to-day.  He  died  ripe  in  honors,  despite  his  want 
of  creed,  and  his  mortal  part  was  buried  in  New 
Rochelle,  New  York,  under  a  large  walnut-tree  in  a 
hay-field.  Some  years  later  his  friends  removed  the 
body  to  a  new  grave  in  higher  ground,  and  placed  over 
it  a  monument  that  the  opponents  of  his  principles 
quickly  hacked  to  pieces.  Around  the  original 
grave  there  still  remains  a  part  of  the  old  inclosure, 
and  it  was  proposed  to  erect  a  suitable  memorial  on 
103 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  spot,  but  the  owner  of  the  tract  would  neither 
give  nor  sell  an  inch  of  his  land  for  the  purpose  of 
doing  honor  to  the  man.  Some  doubt  has  already 
been  expressed  as  to  whether  the  grave  is  beneath 
the  monument  or  in  the  inclosure  ;  and  it  is  also  as- 
serted that  Paine's  ghost  appears  at  intervals,  hover- 
ing in  the  air  between  the  two  burial-places,  or  flit- 
ting back  and  forth  from  one  to  the  other,  lament- 
ing the  forgetfulness  of  men  and  wailing,  "  Where 
is  my  grave  ?  I  have  lost  my  grave  !" 

THE  RISING  OF  GOUVERNEUR  MORRIS 


OUVERNEUR  MORRIS,  American  minister 
V-T  to  the  court  of  Louis  XVI,  was  consider- 
ably enriched,  at  the  close  of  the  reign  of  terror,  by 
plate,  jewels,  furniture,  paintings,  coaches,  and  so 
on,  left  in  his  charge  by  members  of  the  French 
nobility,  that  they  might  not  be  confiscated  in  the 
sack  of  the  city  by  the  sans  culottes  ;  for  so  many  of 
the  aristocracy  were  killed  and  so  many  went  into 
exile  or  disguised  their  names,  that  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  find  heirs  or  owners  for  these  effects.  Some 
of  the  people  who  found  France  a  good  country  to 
be  out  of  came  to  America,  where  adventurers  had 
found  prosperity  and  refugees  found  peace  so  many 
times  before.  Marshal  Ney  and  Bernadotte  are  al- 
leged to  have  served  in  the  American  army  during 
the  Revolution,  and  at  Hogansburg,  New  York,  the 
Reverend  Eleazer  Williams,  an  Episcopal  mission- 
104 


The  Hudson  and  its  Hills 

ary,  who  lies  buried  in  the  church-yard  there,  was 
declared  to  be  the  missing  son  of  Louis  XVI.  The 
question,  "  Have  we  a  Bourbon  among  us  ?"  was  fre- 
quently canvassed ;  but  he  avoided  publicity  and 
went  quietly  on  with  his  pastoral  work. 

All  property  left  in  Mr.  Morris's  hands  that  had 
not  been  claimed  was  removed  to  his  mansion  at 
Port  Morris,  when  he  returned  from  his  ministry, 
and  he  gained  in  the  esteem  and  envy  of  his  neigh- 
bors when  the  extent  of  these  riches  was  seen. 
Once,  at  the  wine,  he  touched  glasses  with  his 
wife,  and  said  that  if  she  bore  a  male  child  that  son 
should  be  heir  to  his  wealth.  Two  relatives  who 
sat  at  the  table  exchanged  looks  at  this  and  cast  a 
glance  of  no  gentle  regard  on  his  lady.  A  year 
went  by.  The  son  was  born,  but  Gouverneur  Morris 
was  dead. 

It  is  the  first  night  of  the  year  1817,  the  servants 
are  asleep,  and  the  widow  sits  late  before  the  fire, 
her  baby  in  her  arms,  listening  betimes  to  the  wind 
in  the  chimney,  the  beat  of  hail  on  the  shutters,  the 
brawling  of  the  Bronx  and  the  clash  of  moving  ice 
upon  it ;  yet  thinking  of  her  husband  and  the  sinis- 
ter look  his  promise  had  brought  to  the  faces  of  his 
cousins,  when  a  tramp  of  horses  is  heard  without,  and 
anon  a  summons  at  the  door.  The  panels  are  beaten 
by  loaded  riding-whips,  and  a  man's  voice  cries, 
"Anne  Morris,  fetch  us  our  cousin's  will,  or  we'll 
break  into  the  house  and  take  it."  The  woman 
clutches  the  infant  to  her  breast,  but  makes  no  an- 
105 


Myths  and  Legends 

swer.  Again  the  clatter  of  the  whips ;  but  now  a 
mist  is  gathering  in  the  room,  and  a  strange  enchant- 
ment comes  over  her,  for  are  not  the  lions  breathing 
on  the  coat  of  arms  above  the  door,  and  are  not  the 
portraits  stirring  in  their  frames  ? 

They  are,  indeed.  There  is  a  rustle  of  robes  and 
clink  of  steel  and  one  old  warrior  leaps  down,  his 
armor  sounding  as  he  alights,  and  striking  thrice  his 
sword  and  shield  together  he  calls  on  Gouverneur 
Morris  to  come  forth.  Somebody  moves  in  the 
room  where  Morris  died ;  there  is  a  measured  foot- 
fall in  the  corridor,  with  the  clank  of  a  scabbard 
keeping  time ;  the  door  is  opened,  and  on  the  blast 
that  enters  the  widow  hears  a  cry,  then  a  double 
gallop,  passing  swiftly  into  distance.  As  she  gazes, 
her  husband  appears,  apparelled  as  in  life,  and  with 
a  smile  he  takes  a  candelabrum  from  the  mantel  and, 
beckoning  her  to  follow,  moves  from  room  to  room. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  the  widow  knows  to  what 
wealth  her  baby  has  been  born,  for  the  ghost  dis- 
closes secret  drawers  in  escritoires  where  money, 
title  deeds,  and  gems  are  hidden,  turns  pictures  and 
wainscots  on  unsuspected  hinges,  revealing  shelves 
heaped  with  fabrics,  plate,  and  lace  ;  then,  returning 
to  the  fireside,  he  stoops  as  if  to  kiss  his  wife  and 
boy,  but  a  bell  strikes  the  first  hour  of  morning  and 
he  vanishes  into  his  portrait  on  the  wall. 


106 


fcslc  of  iHanfiattorS  and 


JMe  of  fftanjattoes  anir 


DOLPH   HEYLIGER 

NEW  YORK  was  New  Amsterdam  when  Dolph 
Heyliger  got  himself  born  there, — a  grace- 
less scamp,  though  a  brave,  good-natured  one,  and 
being  left  penniless  on  his  father's  death  he  was  fain 
to  take  service  with  a  doctor,  while  his  mother  kept 
a  shop.  This  doctor  had  bought  a  farm  on  the 
island  of  Manhattoes — away  out  of  town,  where 
Twenty-third  Street  now  runs,  most  likely — and, 
because  of  rumors  that  its  tenants  had  noised  about 
it,  he  seemed  likely  to  enjoy  the  responsibilities  of 
landholding  and  none  of  its  profits.  It  suited 
Dolph's  adventurous  disposition  that  he  should  be 
deputed  to  investigate  the  reason  for  these  rumors, 
and  for  three  nights  he  kept  his  abode  in  the  deso- 
late old  manor,  emerging  after  daybreak  in  a  lax  and 
pallid  condition,  but  keeping  his  own  counsel,  to  the 
aggravation  of  the  populace,  whose  ears  were  burning 
for  his  news. 

Not  until  long  after  did  he  tell  of  the  solemn 
tread  that  woke  him  in  the  small  hours,  of  his  door 
softly  opening,  though  he  had  bolted  and  locked  it, 
of  a  portly  Fleming,  with  curly  gray  hair,  reservoir 
boots,  slouched  hat,  trunk  and  doublet,  who  entered 
109 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  sat  in  the  arm-chair,  watching  him  until  the 
cock  crew.  Nor  did  he  tell  how  on  the  third  night 
he  summoned  courage,  hugging  a  Bible  and  a  cate- 
chism to  his  breast  for  confidence,  to  ask  the  mean- 
ing of  the  visit,  and  how  the  Fleming  arose,  and 
drawing  Dolph  after  him  with  his  eyes,  led  him 
downstairs,  went  through  the  front  door  without 
unbolting  it,  leaving  that  task  for  the  trembling  yet 
eager  youth,  and  how,  after  he  had  proceeded  to  a 
disused  well  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  he  vanished 
from  sight. 

Dolph  brooded  long  upon  these  things  and  dreamed 
of  them  in  bed.  He  alleged  that  it  was  in  obedience 
to  his  dreams  that  he  boarded  a  schooner  bound  up 
the  Hudson,  without  the  formality  of  adieu  to  his 
employer,  and  after  being  spilled  ashore  in  a  gale  at 
the  foot  of  Storm  King,  he  fell  into  the  company  of 
Anthony  Vander  Heyden,  a  famous  landholder  and 
hunter,  who  achieved  a  fancy  for  Dolph  as  a  lad 
who  could  shoot,  fish,  row,  and  swim,  and  took  him 
home  with  him  to  Albany.  The  Heer  had  com- 
modious quarters,  good  liquor,  and  a  pretty  daugh- 
ter, and  Dolph  felt  himself  in  paradise  until  led  to 
the  room  he  was  to  occupy,  for  one  of  the  first 
things  that  he  set  eyes  on  in  that  apartment  was  a 
portrait  of  the  very  person  who  had  kept  him  awake 
for  the  worse  part  of  three  nights  at  the  bowerie  in 
Manhattoes.  He  demanded  to  know  whose  picture 
it  was,  and  learned  that  it  was  that  of  Killian  Van- 
der Spiegel,  burgomaster  and  curmudgeon,  who 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

buried  his  money  when  the  English  seized  New 
Amsterdam  and  fretted  himself  to  death  lest  it 
should  be  discovered.  He  remembered  that  his 
mother  had  spoken  of  this  Spiegel  and  that  her 
father  was  the  miser's  rightful  heir,  and  it  now  ap- 
peared that  he  was  one  of  Heyden's  forbears  too. 
In  his  dream  that  night  the  Fleming  stepped  out  of 
the  portrait,  led  him,  as  he  had  done  before,  to  the 
well,  where  he  smiled  and  vanished.  Dolph  re- 
flected, next  morning,  that  these  things  had  been 
ordered  to  bring  together  the  two  branches  of  the 
family  and  disclose  the  whereabouts  of  the  treasure 
that  it  should  inherit.  So  full  was  he  of  this  idea 
that  he  went  back  to  New  Amsterdam  by  the  first 
schooner,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Heer  and  the  regret 
of  his  daughter. 

After  the  truant  had  been  received  with  execra- 
tions by  the  doctor  and  with  delight  by  his  mother, 
who  believed  that  spooks  had  run  off  with  him,  and 
with  astonishment,  as  a  hero  of  romance,  by  the 
public,  he  made  for  the  haunted  premises  at  the  first 
opportunity  and  began  to  angle  at  the  disused  well. 
Presently  he  found  his  hook  entangled  in  something 
at  the  bottom,  and  on  lifting  slowly  he  discovered 
that  he  had  secured  a  fine  silver  porringer,  with  lid 
held  down  by  twisted  wire.  It  was  the  work  of  a 
moment  to  wrench  off  the  lid,  when  he  found  the 
vessel  to  be  filled  with  golden  pieces.  His  fishing 
that  day  was  attended  with  such  luck  as  never  fell  to 
an  angler  before,  for  there  were  other  pieces  of  plate 


Myths  and  Legends 

down  there,  all  engraved  with  the  Spiegel  arms  and 
all  containing  treasure. 

By  encouraging  the  most  dreadful  stories  about  the 
spot,  in  order  to  keep  the  people  wide  away  from 
it,  he  accomplished  the  removal  of  his  prizes  bit  by 
bit  from  their  place  of  concealment  to  his  home. 
His  unaccounted  absence  in  Albany  and  his  dealings 
with  the  dead  had  prepared  his  neighbors  for  any 
change  in  himself  or  his  condition,  and  now  that  he 
always  had  a  bottle  of  schnapps  for  the  men  and  a  pot 
of  tea  for  the  women,  and  was  good  to  his  mother, 
they  said  that  they  had  always  known  that  when  he 
changed  it  would  be  for  the  better, — at  which  his  old 
detractors  lifted  their  eyebrows  significantly — and 
when  asked  to  dinner  by  him  they  always  accepted. 

Moreover,  they  made  merry  when  the  day  came 
round  for  his  wedding  with  the  little  maid  of  Al- 
bany. They  likewise  elected  him  a  member  of  the 
corporation,  to  which  he  bequeathed  some  of  the 
Spiegel  plate  and  often  helped  the  other  city  fathers 
to  empty  the  big  punch-bowl.  Indeed,  it  was  at  one 
of  these  corporation  feasts  that  he  died  of  apoplexy. 
He  was  buried  with  honors  in  the  yard  of  the  Dutch 
church  in  Garden  Street. 

THE   KNELL   AT   THE   WEDDING 

A  YOUNG  New  Yorker  had  laid  such  siege  to 
the  heart  of  a  certain  belle — this  was  back 
in  the  Knickerbocker  days  when  people  married  for 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

love — that  everybody  said  the  banns  were  as  good 
as  published ;  but  everybody  did  not  know,  for  one 
fine  morning  my  lady  went  to  church  with  another 
gentleman — not  her  father,  though  old  enough  to  be 
— and  when  the  two  came  out  they  were  man  and 
wife.  The  elderly  man  was  rich.  After  the  first 
paroxysm  of  rage  and  disappointment  had  passed, 
the  lover  withdrew  from  the  world  and  devoted 
himself  to  study ;  nor  when  he  learned  that  she 
had  become  a  widow,  with  comfortable  belongings 
derived  from  the  estate  of  the  late  lamented,  did  he 
renew  acquaintance  with  her,  and  he  smiled  bitterly 
when  he  heard  of  her  second  marriage  to  a  young 
adventurer  who  led  her  a  wretched  life,  but  atoned 
for  his  sins,  in  a  measure,  by  dying  soon  enough 
afterward  to  leave  a  part  of  her  fortune  unspent. 

In  the  lapse  of  time  the  doubly  widowed  returned 
to  New  York,  where  she  met  again  the  lover  of  her 
youth.  Mr.  Ellenwood  had  acquired  the  reserve 
of  a  scholar,  and  had  often  puzzled  his  friends  with 
his  eccentricities  ;  but  after  a  few  meetings  with  the 
object  of  his  young  affection  he  came  out  of  his 
glooms,  and  with  respectful  formality  laid  again  at 
her  feet  the  heart  she  had  trampled  on  forty  years 
before.  Though  both  of  them  were  well  on  in 
life,  the  news  of  their  engagement  made  little  of  a 
sensation.  The  widow  was  still  fair ;  the  wooer 
was  quiet,  refined,  and  courtly,  and  the  union  of 
their  fortunes  would  assure  a  competence  for  the 
years  that  might  be  left  to  them.  The  church  of 
8  113 


Myths  and  Legends 

St.  Paul,  on  Broadway,  was  appointed  for  the  wed- 
ding, and  it  was  a  whim  of  the  groom  that  his  bride 
should  meet  him  there.  At  the  appointed  hour  a 
company  of  the  curious  had  assembled  in  the  edifice  ; 
a  rattle  of  wheels  was  heard,  and  a  bevy  of  brides- 
maids and  friends  in  hoop,  patch,  velvet,  silk,  powder, 
swords,  and  buckles  walked  down  the  aisle ;  but  just 
as  the  bride  had  come  within  the  door,  out  of  the 
sunlight  that  streamed  so  brilliantly  on  the  mounded 
turf  and  tombstones  in  the  churchyard,  the  bell  in 
the  steeple  gave  a  single  boom. 

The  bride  walked  to  the  altar,  and  as  she  took 
her  place  before  it  another  clang  resounded  from  the 
belfry.  The  bridegroom  was  not  there.  Again 
and  again  the  brazen  throat  and  iron  tongue  sent  out 
a  doleful  knell,  and  faces  grew  pale  and  anxious,  for 
the  meaning  of  it  could  not  be  guessed.  With  eyes 
fixed  on  the  marble  tomb  of  her  first  husband,  the 
woman  tremblingly  awaited  the  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery, until  the  door  was  darkened  by  something  that 
made  her  catch  her  breath — a  funeral.  The  organ 
began  a  solemn  dirge  as  a  black-cloaked  cortege  came 
through  the  aisle,  and  it  was  with  amazement  that 
the  bride  discovered  it  to  be  formed  of  her  oldest 
friends, — bent,  withered ;  paired,  man  and  woman, 
as  in  mockery — while  behind,  with  white  face, 
gleaming  eyes,  disordered  hair,  and  halting  step, 
came  the  bridegroom,  in  his  shroud. 

"  Come,"    he    said,   "  let  us   be   married.     The 
coffins  are  ready.     Then,  home  to  the  tomb." 
"4 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

"  Cruel !"  murmured  the  woman. 

"  Now,  Heaven  judge  which  of  us  has  been  cruel. 
Forty  years  ago  you  took  away  my  faith,  destroyed  my 
hopes,  and  gave  to  others  your  youth  and  beauty. 
Our  lives  have  nearly  run  their  course,  so  I  am  come 
to  wed  you  as  with  funeral  rites."  Then,  in  a 
softer  manner,  he  took  her  hand,  and  said,  "  All  is 
forgiven.  If  we  cannot  live  together  we  will  at 
least  be  wedded  in  death.  Time  is  almost  at  its 
end.  We  will  marry  for  eternity.  Come."  And 
tenderly  embracing  her,  he  led  her  forward.  Hard 
as  was  the  ordeal,  confusing,  frightening,  humiliating, 
the  bride  came  through  it  a  better  woman. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  vain  and 
worldly,  but  now,  in  my  age,  the  truest  love  I  ever 
knew  has  come  back  to  me.  It  is  a  holy  love.  I 
will  cherish  it  forever."  Their  eyes  met,  and  they 
saw  each  other  through  tears.  Solemnly  the  clergy- 
man read  the  marriage  service,  and  when  it  was 
concluded  the  low  threnody  that  had  come  from  the 
organ  in  key  with  the  measured  clang  of  the  bell, 
merged  into  a  nobler  motive,  until  at  last  the  funeral 
measures  were  lost  in  a  burst  of  exultant  harmony. 
Sobs  of  pent  feeling  and  sighs  of  relief  were  heard 
as  the  bridal  party  moved  away,  and  when  the  new- 
made  wife  and  husband  reached  the  portal  the  bell 
was  silent  and  the  sun  was  shining. 


Myths  and  Legends 

ROISTERING   DIRCK   VAN   DARA 

IN  the  days  when  most  of  New  York  stood  below 
Grand  Street,  a  roistering  fellow  used  to  make 
the  rounds  of  the  taverns  nightly,  accompanied  by 
a  friend  named  Rooney.  This  brave  drinker  was 
Dirck  Van  Dara,  one  of  the  last  of  those  swag- 
bellied  topers  that  made  merry  with  such  solemnity 
before  the  English  seized  their  unoffending  town. 
It  chanced  that  Dirck  and  his  chum  were  out  later 
than  usual  one  night,  and  by  eleven  o'clock,  when 
all  good  people  were  abed,  a  drizzle  set  in  that  drove 
the  watch  to  sleep  in  doorways  and  left  Broadway 
tenantless.  As  the  two  choice  spirits  reeled  out  of 
a  hostelry  near  Wall  Street  and  saw  the  lights  go  out 
in  the  tap-room  windows  they  started  up  town  to 
their  homes  in  Leonard  Street,  but  hardly  had  they 
come  abreast  of  old  St.  Paul's  when  a  strange  thing 
stayed  them :  crying  was  heard  in  the  churchyard 
and  a  phosphorescent  light  shone  among'  the  tombs. 
Rooney  was  sober  in  a  moment,  but  not  so  Dirck 
Van  Dara,  who  shouted,  "  Here  is  sport,  friend 
Rooney.  Let's  climb  the  wall.  If  the  dead  are 
for  a  dance,  we  will  take  partners  and  show  them 
how  pigeons'  wings  are  cut  nowadays." 

"  No,"  exclaimed  the  other  ;  "  those  must  perish 
who  go  among  the  dead  when  they  come  out  of 
their  graves.  I've  heard  that  if  you  get  into  their 
clutches,  you  must  stay  in  purgatory  for  a  hundred 
years,  and  no  priest  can  pray  you  out." 
116 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

"  Bah  !  old  wives'  tales  !  Come  on  !"  And  pull- 
ing his  friend  with  him,  they  were  over  the  fence. 
"  Hello  !  what  have  we  here  ?"  As  he  spoke  a  hag- 
gard thing  arose  from  behind  a  tombstone,  a  witch- 
like  creature,  with  rags  falling  about  her  wasted  form 
and  hair  that  almost  hid  her  face.  The  twain  were 
set  a-sneezing  by  the  fumes  of  sulphur,  and  Rooney 
swore  afterwards  that  there  were  little  things  at  the 
end  of  the  yard  with  grinning  faces  and  lights  on  the 
ends  of  their  tails.  Old  Hollands  are  heady.  Dirck 
began  to  chaff  the  beldam  on  her  dilapidation,  but 
she  stopped  his  talk  by  dipping  something  from  a 
caldron  behind  her  and  flinging  it  over  both  of  her 
visitors.  Whatever  it  was,  it  burned  outrageously, 
and  with  a  yell  of  pain  they  leaped  the  wall  more 
briskly  than  they  had  jumped  it  the  other  way,  and 
were  soon  in  full  flight.  They  had  not  gone  far 
when  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

"  Arrah !  there's  a  crowd  of  them  coming  after," 
panted  Rooney.  "  Ave  Mary  !  I've  heard  that  if 
you  die  with  witch  broth  being  thrown  over  you, 
you're  done  for  in  the  next  world,  as  well  as  this. 
Let  us  get  to  Father  Donagan's.  Wow !" 

As  he  made  this  exclamation  the  fugitives  found 
their  way  opposed  by  a  woman,  who  looked  at  them 
with  immodest  eyes  and  said,  "  Dirck  Van  Dara,  your 
sire,  in  wig  and  bob,  turned  us  Cyprians  out  of  New 
York,  after  ducking  us  in  the  Collect.  But  we  for- 
give him,  and  to  prove  it  we  ask  you  to  our 
festival." 

117 


Myths  and  Legends 

At  the  stroke  of  midnight  the  street  before  the 
church  had  swarmed  with  a  motley  throng,  that  now 
came  onward,  waving  torches  that  sparkled  like 
stars.  They  formed  a  ring  about  Dirck  and  began 
to  dance,  and  he,  nothing  loth,  seized  the  nymph 
who  had  addressed  him  and  joined  in  the  revel.  Not 
a  soul  was  out  or  awake  except  themselves,  and  no 
words  were  said  as  the  dance  went  wilder  to  strains 
of  weird  and  unseen  instruments.  Now  and  then 
one  would  apply  a  torch  to  the  person  of  Dirck, 
meanly  assailing  him  in  the  rear,  and  the  smart  of 
the  burn  made  him  feat  it  the  livelier.  At  last  they 
turned  toward  the  Battery  as  by  common  consent, 
and  went  careering  along  the  street  in  frolic  fashion. 
Rooney,  whose  senses  had  thus  far  been  pent  in  a 
stupor,  fled  with  a  yell  of  terror,  and  as  he  looked 
back  he  saw  the  unholy  troop  disappearing  in  the 
mist  like  a  moving  galaxy.  Never  from  that  night 
was  Dirck  Van  Dara  seen  or  heard  of  more,  and  the 
publicans  felt  that  they  had  less  reason  for  living. 

THE   PARTY   FROM   GIBBET   ISLAND 

ELLIS  ISLAND,   in   New   York  harbor,  once 
bore   the    name  of  Gibbet   Island,   because 
pirates  and  mutineers  were  hanged  there  in  chains. 
During  the  times  when  it  was  devoted  to  this  fell 
purpose    there    stood    in    Communipaw    the    Wild 
Goose   tavern,  where  Dutch   burghers  resorted,   to 
smoke,   drink   Hollands,  and    grow   fat,   wise,   and 
ill 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

sleepy  in  each  others'  compaay.  The  plague  of 
this  inn  was  Van  Yost  Vanderscamp,  a  nephew  of 
the  landlord,  who  frequently  alarmed  the  patrons 
of  the  house  by  putting  powder  into  their  pipes  and 
attaching  briers  beneath  their  horses'  tails,  and  who 
naturally  turned  pirate  when  he  became  older,  taking 
with  him  to  sea  his  boon  companion,  an  ill-disposed, 
ill-favored  blackamoor  named  Pluto,  who  had  been 
employed  about  the  tavern.  When  the  land- 
lord died,  Vanderscamp  possessed  himself  of  this 
property,  fitted  it  up  with  plunder,  and  at  intervals 
he  had  his  gang  ashore, — such  a  crew  of  singing, 
swearing,  drinking,  gaming  devils  as  Communipaw 
had  never  seen  the  like  of;  yet  the  residents  could 
not  summon  activity  enough  to  stop  the  goings-on 
that  made  the  Wild  Goose  a  disgrace  to  their  vil- 
lage. The  British  authorities,  however,  caught 
three  of  the  swashbucklers  and  strung  them  up  on 
Gibbet  Island,  and  things  that  went  on  badly  in 
Communipaw  after  that  went  on  with  quiet  and 
secrecy. 

The  pirate  and  his  henchmen  were  returning 
to  the  tavern  one  night,  after  a  visit  to  a  rakish- 
looking  vessel  in  the  offing,  when  a  squall  broke  in 
such  force  as  to  give  their  skiff  a  leeway  to  the  place 
of  executions.  As  they  rounded  that  lonely  reef  a 
creaking  noise  overhead  caused  Vanderscamp  to  look 
up,  and  he  could  not  repress  a  shudder  as  he  saw  the 
bodies  of  his  three  messmates,  their  rags  fluttering 
and  their  chains  grinding  in  the  wind. 
119 


Myths  and  Legends 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  your  friends  ?"  sneered 
Pluto.  "  You,  who  are  never  afraid  of  living  men, 
what  do  you  fear  from  the  dead  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  pirate.  Then,  lugging 
forth  his  bottle,  he  took  a  long  pull  at  it,  and  hold- 
ing it  toward  the  dead  felons,  he  shouted,  "  Here's 
fair  weather  to  you,  my  lads  in  the  wind,  and  if  you 
should  be  walking  the  rounds  to-night,  come  in  to 
supper." 

A  clatter  of  bones  and  a  creak  of  chains  sounded 
like  a  laugh.  It  was  midnight  when  the  boat 
pulled  in  at  Communipaw,  and  as  the  storm  con- 
tinued Vanderscamp,  drenched  to  the  skin,  made 
quick  time  to  the  Wild  Goose.  As  he  entered,  a 
sound  of  revelry  overhead  smote  his  ear,  and,  being 
no  less  astonished  than  in  need  of  cordials,  he  has- 
tened up-stairs  and  flung  open  the  door.  A  table 
stood  there,  furnished  with  jugs  and  pipes  and  cans, 
and  by  light  of  candles  that  burned  as  blue  as  brim- 
stone could  be  seen  the  three  gallows-birds  from 
Gibbet  Island,  with  halters  on  their  necks,  clinking 
their  tankards  together  and  trolling  forth  a  drinking- 
song. 

Starting  back  with  affright  as  the  corpses  hailed 
him  with  lifted  arms  and  turned  their  fishy  eyes  on 
him,  Vanderscamp  slipped  at  the  door  and  fell 
headlong  to  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  Next  morn- 
ing he  was  found  there  by  the  neighbors,  dead  to  a 
certainty,  and  was  put  away  in  the  Dutch  church- 
yard at  Bergen  on  the  Sunday  following.  As  the 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

house  was  rifled  and  deserted  by  its  occupants,  it  was 
hinted  that  the  negro  had  betrayed  his  master  to  his 
fellow-buccaneers,  and  that  he,  Pluto,  was  no  other 
than  the  devil  in  disguise.  But  he  was  not,  for  his 
skiff  was  seen  floating  bottom  up  in  the  bay  soon 
after,  and  his  drowned  body  lodged  among  the  rocks 
at  the  foot  of  the  pirates'  gallows. 

For  a  long  time  afterwards  the  island  was  re- 
garded as  a  place  that  required  purging  with  bell, 
book,  and  candle,  for  shadows  were  reported  there 
and  faint  lights  that  shot  into  the  air,  and  to  this 
day,  with  the  great  immigrant  station  on  it  and 
crowds  going  and  coming  all  the  time,  the  Battery 
boatmen  prefer  not  to  row  around  it  at  night,  for 
they  are  likely  to  see  the  shades  of  the  soldier  and 
his  mistress  who  were  drowned  off  the  place  one 
windy  night,  when  the  girl  was  aiding  the  fellow  to 
escape  confinement  in  the  guard-house,  to  say  nothing 
of  Vanderscamp  and  his  felons. 

MISS   BRITTON'S   POKER 

THE  maids  of  Staten  Island  wrought  havoc 
among  the  royal  troops  who  were  quartered 
among  them  during  the  Revolution.  Near  quaran- 
tine, in  an  old  house, — the  Austen  mansion, — a  sol- 
dier of  King  George  hanged  himself  because  a  Yan- 
kee maid  who  lived  there  would  not  have  him  for  a 
husband,  nor  any  gentleman  whose  coat  was  of  his 
color ;  and,  until  ghosts  went  out  of  fashion,  his 


Myths  and  Legends 

spirit,  in  somewhat  heavy  boots,  with  jingling  spurs, 
often  disturbed  the  nightly  quiet  of  the  place. 

The  conduct  of  a  damsel  in  the  old  town  of 
Richmond  was  even  more  stern.  She  was  the 
granddaughter,  and  a  pretty  one,  of  a  farmer  named 
Britton ;  but  though  Britton  by  descent  and  name, 
she  was  no  friend  of  Britons,  albeit  she  might  have 
had  half  the  officers  in  the  neighboring  camp  at  her 
feet,  if  she  had  wished  them  there.  Once,  while 
mulling  a  cup  of  cider  for  her  grandfather,  she  was 
interrupted  by  a  self-invited  myrmidon,  who  under- 
took, in  a  fashion  rude  and  unexpected,  to  show  the 
love  in  which  he  held  her.  Before  he  could  kiss 
her,  the  girl  drew  the  hot  poker  from  the  mug  of 
drink  and  jabbed  at  the  vitals  of  her  amorous  foe, 
burning  a  hole  through  his  scarlet  uniform  and 
printing  on  his  burly  person  a  lasting  memento  of 
the  adventure.  With  a  howl  of  pain  the  fellow 
rushed  away,  and  the  privacy  of  the  Britton  family 
was  never  again  invaded,  at  least  whilst  cider  was 
being  mulled. 

THE  DEVIL'S   STEPPING-STONES 

WHEN  the  devil  set  a  claim  to  the  fair  lands 
at  the  north  of  Long  Island  Sound,  his 
claim  was  disputed  by  the  Indians,  who  prepared 
to  fight  for  their  homes  should  he  attempt  to  serve 
his  writ  of  ejectment.  Parley  resulted  in  nothing, 
so  the  bad  one  tried  force,  but  he  was  routed  in 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

open  fight  and  found  it  desirable  to  get  away  from 
the  scene  of  action  as  soon  as  possible.  He  retreated 
across  the  Sound  near  the  head  of  East  River.  The 
tide  was  out,  so  he  stepped  from  island  to  island, 
without  trouble,  and  those  reefs  and  islands  are  to 
this  day  the  Devil's  Stepping-Stones.  On  reach- 
ing Throgg's  Neck  he  sat  down  in  a  despairing 
attitude  and  brooded  on  his  defeat,  until,  roused  to 
a  frenzy  at  the  thought  of  it,  he  resolved  to  renew 
the  war  on  terms  advantageous  entirely  to  himself. 
In  that  day  Connecticut  was  free  from  rocks,  but 
Long  Island  was  covered  with  them  ;  so  he  gathered 
all  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  and  tossed  them 
at  the  Indians  that  he  could  see  across  the  Sound 
near  Cold  Spring  until  the  supply  had  given  out. 
The  red  men  who  last  inhabited  Connecticut  used 
to  show  white  men  where  the  missiles  landed  and 
where  the  devil  struck  his  heel  into  the  ground  as 
he  sprang  from  the  shore  in  his  haste  to  reach  Long 
Island.  At  Cold  Spring  other  footprints  and  one  of 
his  toes  are  shown.  Establishing  himself  at  Coram, 
he  troubled  the  people  of  the  country  for  many  years, 
so  that  between  the  devil  on  the  west  and  the  Mon- 
tauks  on  the  east  they  were  plagued  indeed ;  for 
though  their  guard  at  Watch  Hill,  Rhode  Island,  and 
other  places  often  apprised  them  of  the  coming  of 
the  Montauks,  they  never  knew  which  way  to  look 
for  the  devil. 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE  SPRINGS   OF   BLOOD  AND  WATER 

A  GREAT  drought  had  fallen  on  Long  Island, 
and  the  red  men  prayed  for  water.  It  is  true 
that  they  could  get  it  at  Lake  Ronkonkoma,  but 
some  of  them  were  many  miles  from  there,  and,  be- 
side, they  feared  the  spirits  at  that  place :  the  girl 
who  plied  its  waters  in  a  phosphor-shining  birch, 
seeking  her  recreant  lover ;  and  the  powerful  guar- 
dians that  the  Great  Spirit  had  put  in  charge  to  keep 
the  fish  from  being  caught,  for  these  fish  were  the 
souls  of  men,  awaiting  deliverance  into  another  form. 
The  people  gathered  about  their  villages  in  bands 
and  besought  the  Great  Spirit  to  give  them  drink. 
His  voice  was  heard  at  last,  bidding  their  chief  to 
shoot  an  arrow  into  the  air  and  to  watch  where  it 
fell,  for  there  would  water  gush  out.  The  chief 
obeyed  the  deity,  and  as  the  arrow  touched  the 
earth  a  spring  of  sweet  water  spouted  into  the  air. 
Running  forward  with  glad  cries  the  red  men  drank 
eagerly  of  the  liquor,  laved  their  faces  in  it,  and 
were  made  strong  again ;  and  in  memory  of  that 
event  they  called  the  place  the  Hill  of  God,  or 
Manitou  Hill,  and  Manet  or  Manetta  Hill  it  is  to 
this  day.  Hereabouts  the  Indians  settled  and  lived 
in  peace,  thriving  under  the  smile  of  their  deity, 
making  wampum  for  the  inland  tribes  and  waxing 
rich  with  gains  from  it.  They  made  the  canal  from 
bay  to  sea  at  Canoe  Place,  that  they  might  reach 
open  water  without  dragging  their  boats  across  the 
124 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

sand-bars,  and  in  other  ways  they  proved  themselves 
ingenious  and  strong. 

When  the  English  landed  on  the  island  they  saw 
that  the  Indians  were  not  a  people  to  be  trifled  with, 
and  in  order  to  properly  impress  them  with  their 
superiority,  they  told  them  that  John  Bull  desired  a 
treaty  with  them.  The  officers  got  them  to  sit  in 
line  in  front  of  a  cannon,  the  nature  of  which  instru- 
ment was  unknown  to  them,  and  during  the  talk  the 
gun  was  fired,  mowing  down  so  many  of  the  red 
people  that  the  survivors  took  to  flight,  leaving  the 
English  masters  at  the  north  shore,  for  this  heartless 
and  needless  massacre  took  place  at  Whale's  Neck. 
So  angry  was  the  Great  Spirit  at  this  act  of  cruelty 
and  treachery  that  he  caused  blood  to  ooze  from 
the  soil,  as  he  had  made  water  leap  for  his  thirsting 
children,  and  never  again  would  grass  grow  on  the 
spot  where  the  murder  had  been  done. 

THE   CRUMBLING   SILVER 

THERE   is  a  clay  bank  on  Little  Neck,  Long 
Island,  where  metallic  nodules  are  now  and 
then  exposed  by  rain.     Rustics  declare  them  to  be 
silver,  and  account  for  their  crumbling  on  the  the- 
ory that   the   metal   is   under  a   curse.     A  century 
ago  the  Montauks  mined  it,  digging  over  enough  soil 
to  unearth   these    pellets   now  and    again,  and   ex- 
changing them  at  the  nearest  settlements  for  tobacco 
and  rum.     The  seeming  abundance  of  these  lumps 
"5 


Myths  and  Legends 

of  silver  aroused  the  cupidity  of  one  Gardiner,  a. 
dweller  in  the  central  wilderness  of  the  island,  but 
none  of  the  Indians  would  reveal  the  source  of  their 
treasure.  One  day  Gardiner  succeeded  in  getting 
an  old  chief  so  tipsy  that,  without  realizing  what  he 
was  doing,  he  led  the  white  man  to  the  clay  bed 
and  showed  him  the  metallic  spots  glittering  in  the 
sun.  With  a  cry  of  delight  Gardiner  sprang  for- 
ward and  tore  at  the  earth  with  his  fingers,  while  the 
Indian  stood  by  laughing  at  his  eagerness. 

Presently  a  shade  crosssed  the  white  man's  face, 
for  he  thought  that  this  vast  treasure  would  have  to 
be  shared  by  others.  It  was  too  much  to  endure. 
He  wanted  all.  He  would  be  the  richest  man  on 
earth.  Stealing  behind  the  Indian  as  he  stood  sway- 
ing and  chuckling,  he  wrenched  the  hatchet  from 
his  belt  and  clove  his  skull  at  a  blow.  Then, 
dragging  the  body  to  a  thicket  and  hiding  it  under 
stones  and  leaves,  he  hurried  to  his  house  for  cart 
and  pick  and  shovel,  and  returning  with  speed  he  dug 
out  a  half  ton  of  the  silver  before  sunset.  The  cart 
was  loaded,  and  he  set  homeward,  trembling  with 
excitement  and  conjuring  bright  visions  for  his  future, 
when  a  wailing  sound  from  a  thicket  made  him  halt 
and  turn  pale.  Noiselessly  a  figure  glided  from  the 
bush.  It  was  the  Indian  he  had  killed.  The  form 
approached  the  treasure,  flung  up  its  arm,  uttered 
a  few  guttural  words ;  then  a  rising  wind  seemed  to 
lift  it  from  the  ground  and  it  drifted  toward  the 
Sound,  fading  like  a  cloud  as  it  receded. 
126 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

Full  of  misgiving,  Gardiner  drove  to  his  home, 
and,  by  light  of  a  lantern,  transferred  his  treasure  to 
his  cellar.  Was  it  the  dulness  of  the  candle  that 
made  the  metal  look  so  black  ?  After  a  night  of 
feverish  tossing  on  his  bed  he  arose  and  went  to  the 
cellar  to  gloat  upon  his  wealth.  The  light  of  dawn 
fell  on  a  heap  of  gray  dust,  a  few  brassy  looking 
particles  showing  here  and  there.  The  curse  of  the 
ghost  had  been  of  power  and  the  silver  was  silver  no 
more.  Mineralogists  say  that  the  nodules  are  iron 
pyrites.  Perhaps  so ;  but  old  residents  know  that 
they  used  to  be  silver. 

THE   CORTELYOU   ELOPEMENT 

IN  the  Bath  district  of  Brooklyn  stands  Cortelyou 
manor,  built  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago, 
and  a  place  of  defence  during  the  Revolution  when 
the  British  made  sallies  from  their  camp  in  Flatbush 
and  worried  the  neighborhood.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  forays  on  pigs  and  chickens  that  a  gallant  offi- 
cer of  red-coats  met  a  pretty  lass  in  the  fields  of 
Cortelyou.  He  stilled  her  alarm  by  aiding  her  to 
gather  wild-flowers,  and  it  came  about  that  the  girl 
often  went  into  the  fields  and  came  back  with  pro- 
digious bouquets  of  daisies.  The  elder  Cortelyou 
had  no  inkling  of  this  adventure  until  one  of  his  sons 
saw  her  tryst  with  the  red-coat  at  a  distance.  Be 
sure  the  whole  family  joined  him  in  remonstrance. 
As  the  girl  declared  that  she  would  not  forego  the 
127 


Myths  and  Legends 

meetings  with  her  lover,  the  father  swore  that  she 
should  never  leave  his  roof  again,  and  he  tried  to  be 
as  good,  or  bad,  as  his  word.  The  damsel  took  her 
imprisonment  as  any  girl  of  spirit  would,  but  was 
unable  to  effect  her  escape  until  one  evening,  as  she 
sat  at  her  window,  watching  the  moon  go  down  and 
paint  the  harbor  with  a  path  of  light.  A  tap  at  the 
pane,  as  of  a  pebble  thrown  against  it,  roused  her 
from  her  revery.  It  was  her  lover  on  the  lawn. 

At  her  eager  signal  he  ran  forward  with  a  light 
ladder,  planted  it  against  the  window-sill,  and  in 
less  than  a  minute  the  twain  were  running  toward 
the  beach  ;  but  the  creak  of  the  ladder  had  been 
heard,  and  grasping  their  muskets  two  of  the  men 
hurried  out.  In  the  track  of  the  moon  the  pursuers 
descried  a  moving  form,  and,  without  waiting  to 
challenge,  they  levelled  the  guns  and  fired.  A 
woman's  cry  followed  the  report ;  then  a  dip  of 
oars  was  heard  that  fast  grew  fainter  until  it  faded 
from  hearing.  On  returning  to  the  house  they 
found  the  girl's  room  empty,  and  next  morning  her 
slipper  was  brought  in  from  the  mud  at  the  landing. 
Nobody  inside  of  the  American  lines  ever  learned 
what  that  shot  had  done,  but  if  it  failed  to  take  a 
life  it  robbed  Cortelyou  of  his  mind.  He  spent  the 
rest  of  his  days  in  a  single  room,  chained  to  a  staple 
in  the  floor,  tramping  around  and  around,  muttering 
and  gesturing,  and  sometimes  startling  the  passer-by 
as  he  showed  his  white  face  and  ragged  beard  at  the 
window. 

128 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

VAN   WEMPEL'S   GOOSE 

ALLOW  us  to  introduce  Nicholas  Van  Wempel, 
of  Flatbush  :  fat,  phlegmatic,  rich,  and  hen- 
pecked. He  would  like  to  be  drunk  because  he  is 
henpecked,  but  the  wife  holds  the  purse-strings  and 
only  doles  out  money  to  him  when  she  wants  grocer- 
ies or  he  needs  clothes.  It  was  New  Year's  eve, 
the  eve  of  1739,  when  Vrouw  Van  Wempel  gave  to 
her  lord  ten  English  shillings  and  bade  him  hasten 
to  Dr.  Beck's  for  the  fat  goose  that  had  been  be- 
spoken. "And  mind  you  do  not  stop  at  the  tavern," 
she  screamed  after  him  in  her  shrillest  tone.  But 
poor  Nicholas !  As  he  went  waddling  down  the 
road,  snapping  through  an  ice-crust  at  every  step,  a 
roguish  wind — or  perhaps  it  was  one  of  the  bugaboos 
that  were  known  to  haunt  the  shores  of  Gravesend 
Bay — snatched  off  his  hat  and  rolled  it  into  the  very 
doorway  of  the  tavern  that  he  had  been  warned, 
under  terrible  penalties,  to  avoid. 

As  he  bent  to  pick  it  up  the  door  fell  ajar,  and  a 
pungency  of  schnapps  and  tobacco  went  into  his 
nostrils.  His  resolution,  if  he  had  one,  vanished. 
He  ordered  one  glass  of  schnapps ;  friends  came  in 
and  treated  him  to  another ;  he  was  bound  to  do  as 
much  for  them  ;  shilling  by  shilling  the  goose  money 
passed  into  the  till  of  the  landlord.  Nicholas  was 
heard  to  make  a  muttered  assertion  that  it  was  his 
own  money  anyhow,  and  that  while  he  lived  he 
would  be  the  head  of  his  own  house ;  then  the  mut- 


Myths  and  Legends 

terings  grew  faint  and  merged  into  snores.  When 
he  awoke  it  was  at  the  low  sound  of  voices  in  the 
next  room,  and  drowsily  turning  his  head  he  saw 
there  two  strangers, — sailors,  he  thought,  from  their 
leather  jackets,  black  beards,  and  the  rings  in  their 
ears.  What  was  that  they  said  ?  Gold  ?  On  the 
marshes?  At  the  old  Flatlands  tide-mill?  The 
talkers  had  gone  before  his  slow  and  foggy  brain 
could  grasp  it  all,  but  when  the  idea  had  fairly  eaten 
its  way  into  his  intellect,  he  arose  with  the  nearest 
approach  to  alacrity  that  he  had  exhibited  in  years, 
and  left  the  place.  He  crunched  back  to  his  home, 
and  seeing  nobody  astir  went  softly  into  his  shed, 
where  he  secured  a  shovel  and  lantern,  and  thence 
continued  with  all  consistent  speed  to  the  tumble- 
down tide-mill  on  the  marsh, — a  trying  journey  for 
his  fat  legs  on  a  sharp  night,  but  hope  and  schnapps 
impelled  him. 

He  reached  the  mill,  and,  hastening  to  the  cellar, 
began  to  probe  in  the  soft,  unfrozen  earth.  Pres- 
ently his  spade  struck  something,  and  he  dug  and 
dug  until  he  had  uncovered  the  top  of  a  canvas  bag, 
— the  sort  that  sailors  call  a  "  round  stern-chest." 
It  took  all  his  strength  to  lug  it  out,  and  as  he  did 
so  a  seam  burst,  letting  a  shower  of  gold  pieces  over 
the  ground.  He  loosed  the  band  of  his  breeches, 
and  was  filling  the  legs  thereof  with  coin,  when  a 
tread  of  feet  sounded  overhead  and  four  men  came 
down  the  stair.  Two  of  them  he  recognized  as  the 
fellows  of  the  tavern.  They  saw  the  bag,  the 
130 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

lantern,  then  Nicholas.  Laden  though  he  was  with 
gold  until  he  could  hardly  budge,  these  pirates,  for 
such  they  were,  got  him  up-stairs,  forced  him  to 
drink  hot  Hollands  to  the  success  of  their  flag,  then 
shot  him  through  the  window  into  the  creek.  As 
he  was  about  to  make  this  unceremonious  exit  he 
clutched  something  to  save  himself,  and  it  proved  to 
be  a  plucked  goose  that  the  pirates  had  stolen  from 
a  neighboring  farm  and  were  going  to  sup  on  when 
they  had  scraped  their  gold  together.  He  felt  the 
water  and  mud  close  over  him  ;  he  struggled  desper- 
ately ;  he  was  conscious  of  breathing  more  freely  and 
of  staggering  off  at  a  vigorous  gait ;  then  the  power 
of  all  the  schnapps  seemed  to  get  into  his  head,  and 
he  remembered  no  more  until  he  heard  his  wife 
shrilling  in  his  ears,  when  he  sat  up  and  found  him- 
self in  a  snow-bank  close  to  his  house,  with  a  feather- 
less  goose  tight  in  his  grasp. 

Vrouw  Van  Wempel  cared  less  about  the  state  of 
her  spouse  when  she  saw  that  he  had  secured  the 
bird,  and  whenever  he  told  his  tale  of  the  pirates 
she  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  him,  for  if  he  had  found  the 
gold  why  did  he  not  manage  to  bring  home  a  few 
pieces  of  it  ?  He,  in  answer,  asked  how,  as  he  had 
none  of  his  own  money,  she  could  have  come  by  the 
goose  ?  He  often  told  his  tale  to  sympathetic  ears, 
and  would  point  to  the  old  mill  to  prove  that  it  was 
true. 


131 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   WEARY   WATCHER 

BEFORE  the  opening  of  the  great  bridge  sent 
commerce  rattling  up  Washington  Street  in 
Brooklyn  that  thoroughfare  was  a  shaded  and  beauti- 
ful avenue,  and  among  the  houses  that  attested  its 
respectability  was  one,  between  Tillary  and  Con- 
cord Streets,  that  was  long  declared  to  be  haunted. 
A  man  and  his  wife  dwelt  there  who  seemed  to 
be  fondly  attached  to  each  other,  and  whose  love 
should  have  been  the  stronger  because  of  their 
three  children  none  grew  to  years.  A  mutual  sor- 
row is  as  close  a  tie  as  a  common  affection.  One 
day,  while  on  a  visit  to  a  friend,  the  wife  saw  her 
husband  drive  by  in  a  carriage  with  a  showy  woman 
beside  him.  She  went  home  at  once,  and  when 
the  supposed  recreant  returned  she  met  him  with 
bitter  reproaches.  He  answered  never  a  word,  but 
took  his  hat  and  left  the  house,  never  to  be  seen  again 
in  the  places  that  had  known  him. 

The  wife  watched  and  waited,  daily  looking  for 
his  return,  but  days  lengthened  into  weeks,  months, 
years,  and  still  he  came  not.  Sometimes  she 
lamented  that  she  had  spoken  hastily  and  harshly, 
thinking  that,  had  she  known  all,  she  might  have 
found  him  blameless.  There  was  no  family  to  look 
after,  no  wholesome  occupation  that  she  sought,  so 
the  days  went  by  in  listening  and  watching,  until,  at 
last,  her  body  and  mind  gave  way,  and  the  familiar 
sight  of  her  face,  watching  from  a  second  floor  win- 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

dow,  was  seen  no  longer.  Her  last  day  came.  She 
had  risen  from  her  bed ;  life  and  mind  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  be  restored  to  her ;  and  standing  where 
she  had  stood  so  often,  her  form  supported  by  a 
half-closed  shutter  and  a  grasp  on  the  sash,  she 
looked  into  the  street  once  more,  sighed  hopelessly, 
and  so  died.  It  was  her  shade  that  long  watched 
at  the  windows ;  it  was  her  waxen  face,  heavy  with 
fatigue  and  pain,  that  was  dimly  seen  looking  over 
the  balusters  in  the  evening. 

THE   RIVAL   FIDDLERS 

BEFORE  Brooklyn  had  spread  itself  beyond 
Greenwood  Cemetery  a  stone  could  be  seen 
in  Martense's  Lane,  south  of  that  burial-ground, 
that  bore  a  hoof  mark.  A  negro  named  Joost,  in 
the  service  of  the  Van  Der  Something-or-others, 
was  plodding  home  on  Saturday  night,  his  fiddle 
under  his  arm.  He  had  been  playing  for  a  wedding 
in  Flatbush  and  had  been  drinking  schnapps  until  he 
saw  stars  on  the  ground  and  fences  in  the  sky  ;  in  fact, 
the  universe  seemed  so  out  of  order  that  he  seated 
himself  rather  heavily  on  this  rock  to  think  about  it. 
The  behavior  of  the  stars  in  swimming  and  rolling 
struck  him  as  especially  curious,  and  he  conceived 
the  notion  that  they  wanted  to  dance.  Putting  his 
fiddle  to  his  chin,  he  began  a  wild  jig,  and  though 
he  made  it  up  as  he  went  along,  he  was  conscious 
of  doing  finely,  when  the  boom  of  a  bell  sent  a 
shiver  down  his  spine.  It  was  twelve  o'clock,  and 
133 


Myths  and  Legends 

here  he  was  playing  a  dance  tune  on  Sunday.  How- 
ever, the  sin  of  playing  for  one  second  on  the  Sab- 
bath was  as  great  as  that  of  playing  all  day ;  so,  as 
long  as  he  was  in  for  it,  he  resolved  to  carry  the 
tune  to  the  end,  and  he  fiddled  away  with  a  reckless 
vehemence.  Presently  he  became  aware  that  the 
music  was  both  wilder  and  sweeter  than  before,  and 
that  there  was  more  of  it.  Not  until  then  did  he 
observe  that  a  tall,  thin  stranger  stood  beside  him, 
and  that  he  was  fiddling  too, — composing  a  second 
to  Joost's  air,  as  if  he  could  read  his  thought  before 
he  put  it  into  execution  on  the  strings.  Joost  paused, 
and  the  stranger  did  likewise. 

"  Where  de  debble  did  you  come  frum  ?"  asked 
the  first.  The  other  smiled. 

"  And  how  did  you  come  to  know  dat  music  ?" 
Joost  pursued. 

"  Oh,  I've  known  that  tune  for  years,"  was  the 
reply.  "It's  called  'The  Devil's  Joy  at  Sabbath 
Breaking.' " 

"  You're  a  liar !"  cried  the  negro.  The  stranger 
bowed  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  A  liar  !" 
repeated  Joost,  "  for  I  made  up  dat  music  dis  very 
minute." 

"  Yet  you  notice  that  I  could  follow  when  you 
played." 

"  Humph  !     Yes,  you  can  follow." 

"  And  1  can  lead,  too.  Do  you  know  the  tune 
•  Go  to  the  Devil  and  Shake  Yourself?'  " 

"  Yes ;  but  I  play  second  to  nobody." 
"34 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

"  Very  well,  I'll  beat  you  at  any  air  you  try." 
"  Done  !"  said  Joost.  And  then  began  a  contest 
that  lasted  until  daybreak.  The  stranger  was  an 
expert,  but  Joost  seemed  to  be  inspired,  and  just  as 
the  sun  appeared  he  sounded,  in  broad  and  solemn 
harmonies,  the  hymn  of  Von  Catts : 

"  Now  behold,  at  dawn  of  day, 
Pious  Dutchmen  sing  and  pray." 

At  that  the  stranger  exclaimed,  "  Well,  that  beats 
the  devil !"  and  striking  his  foot  angrily  on  the  rock, 
disappeared  in  a  flash  of  fire  like  a  burst  bomb. 
Joost  was  hurled  twenty  feet  by  the  explosion,  and 
lay  on  the  ground  insensible  until  a  herdsman  found 
him  some  hours  later.  As  he  suffered  no  harm  from 
the  contest  and  became  a  better  fiddler  than  ever,  it 
is  supposed  that  the  recording  angel  did  not  inscribe 
his  feat  of  Sabbath  breaking  against  him  in  large 
letters.  There  were  a  few  who  doubted  his  story, 
but  they  had  nothing  more  to  say  when  he  showed 
them  the  hoof-mark  on  the  rock.  Moreover,  there 
are  fewer  fiddlers  among  the  negroes  than  there  used 
to  be,  because  they  say  that  the  violin  is  the  devil's 
instrument. 

WYANDANK 

FROM  Brooklyn  Heights,  or  Ihpetonga,  "  high 
place  of  trees,"  where  the  Canarsie  Indians 
made  wampum  or  sewant,  and  where  they  contem- 
plated the   Great  Spirit  in   the  setting  of  the  sun 
across  the  meeting  waters,  to  Montauk  Point,  Long 
135 


Myths  and  Legends 

Island  has  been  swept  by  the  wars  of  red  men,  and 
many  are  the  tokens  of  their  occupancy.  A  num- 
ber of  their  graves  were  to  be  seen  until  within  fifty 
years,  as  clearly  marked  as  when  the  warriors  were 
laid  there  in  the  hope  of  resurrection  among  the 
happy  hunting  grounds  that  lay  to  the  west  and 
south.  The  casting  of  stones  on  the  death-spots  or 
graves  of  some  revered  or  beloved  Indians  was  long 
continued,  and  was  undoubtedly  for  the  purpose  of 
raising  monuments  to  them,  though  at  Monument 
Mountain,  Massachusetts,  Sacrifice  Rock,  between 
Plymouth  and  Sandwich,  Massachusetts,  and  some 
other  places  the  cairns  merely  mark  a  trail.  Even 
the  temporary  resting-place  of  Sachem  Poggatacut, 
near  Sag  Harbor,  was  kept  clear  of  weeds  and  leaves 
by  Indians  who  passed  it  in  the  two  centuries  that 
lapsed  between  the  death  of  the  chief  and  the  laying 
of  the  road  across  it  in  1846.  This  spot  is  not  far 
from  Whooping  Boy's  Hollow,  so  named  because 
of  a  boy  who  was  killed  by  Indians,  and  because  the 
rubbing  of  two  trees  there  in  a  storm  gave  forth  a 
noise  like  crying.  An  older  legend  has  it  that  this 
noise  is  the  angry  voice  of  the  magician  who  tried 
to  slay  Wyandank,  the  "  Washington  of  the  Mon- 
tauks,"  who  is  buried  on  the  east  end  of  the  island. 
Often  he  led  his  men  into  battle,  sounding  the  war- 
whoop,  copied  from  the  scream  of  the  eagle,  so 
loudly  that  those  who  heard  it  said  that  the  Mon- 
tauks  were  crying  for  prey. 

It  was  while  killing  an  eagle  on  Block  Island,  that 
136 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

he  might  use  the  plumes  for  his  hair,  that  this  chief 
disclosed  himself  to  the  hostiles  and  brought  on  a 
fight  in  which  every  participant  except  himself  was 
slain.  He  was  secretly  followed  back  to  Long 
Island  by  a  magician  who  had  hopes  of  enlisting 
the  evil  ones  of  that  region  against  him, — the  giants 
that  left  their  tracks  in  "  Blood-stone  Rock"  and 
"  Printed  Rock,"  near  Napeague,  and  such  renegades 
as  he  who,  having  betrayed  his  people,  was  swal- 
lowed by  the  earth,  his  last  agony  being  marked  by 
a  stamp  of  the  foot  that  left  its  print  on  a  slab  near 
the  Indian  burial-ground  at  Kongonok.  Failing  in 
these  alliances  the  wizard  hid  among  the  hollows  of 
the  moors,  and  there  worked  spells  of  such  malice 
that  the  chief's  hand  lost  steadiness  in  the  hunt  and 
his  voice  was  seldom  heard  in  council.  When  the 
haunt  of  this  evil  one  was  made  known,  a  number 
of  young  men  undertook  to  trap  him.  They  went 
to  the  hills  by  night,  and  moved  stealthily  through 
the  shrubbery  until  they  were  almost  upon  him  ;  but 
his  familiars  had  warned  him  of  their  approach, 
though  they  had  wakened  him  only  to  betray  him : 
for  a  cloud  swept  in  from  the  sea,  fell  about  the 
wretch,  burst  into  flame,  and  rolled  back  toward  the 
ocean,  bearing  him  in  the  centre  of  its  burning  folds. 
Because  of  the  cry  he  uttered  the  place  long  bore 
the  name  of  Whooping  Hollow,  and  it  used  to  be 
said  that  the  magician  visited  the  scene  of  his  ill- 
doing  every  winter,  when  his  shrieks  could  be  heard 
ringing  over  the  hills. 

137 


Myths  and  Legends 

MARK   OF   THE  SPIRIT   HAND 

A  NDOVER,  New  Jersey,  was  quaint  and  quiet 
XX  in  the  days  before  the  Revolution — it  is  not 
a  roaring  metropolis,  even  yet — and  as  it  offered  few 
social  advantages  there  was  more  gathering  in  tap- 
rooms and  more  drinking  of  flip  than  there  should 
have  been.  Among  those  who  were  not  averse  to 
a  cheering  cup  were  three  boon  companions,  Bailey, 
Hill,  and  Evans,  farmers  of  the  neighborhood.  They 
loved  the  tavern  better  than  the  church,  and  in  truth 
the  church  folk  did  not  love  them  well,  for  they 
were  suspected  of  entertaining  heresies  of  the  most 
forbidden  character.  It  was  while  they  were  dis- 
cussing matters  of  belief  over  their  glasses  that  one 
of  them  proposed,  in  a  spirit  of  bravado,  that  which- 
ever of  the  trio  might  be  first  to  die  should  come 
back  from  the  grave  and  reveal  himself  to  the  others 
— if  he  could — thus  settling  the  question  as  to 
whether  there  was  a  future. 

Not  long  after  this  agreement — for  consent  was 
unanimous — Hill  departed  this  life.  His  friends 
lamented  his  absence,  especially  at  the  tavern,  but 
they  anticipated  no  attempt  on  his  part  to  express 
the  distinguished  consideration  that  he  had  felt  for 
his  old  chums.  Some  weeks  passed,  yet  there  was 
no  sign,  and  the  two  survivors  of  the  party,  as  they 
jogged  homeward  to  the  house  where  both  lived, 
had  begun  to  think  and  speak  less  frequently  of  the 
absent  one.  But  one  night  the  household  was 
138 


The  Isle  of  Manhattoes  and  Nearby 

alarmed  by  a  terrible  cry.  Bailey  got  a  light  and 
hurried  to  the  bedside  of  his  friend,  whom  he  found 
deathly  white  and  holding  his  chest  as  if  in  pain. 
"  He  has  been  here !"  gasped  Evans.  "  He  stood 
here  just  now." 

"  Who  ?"  asked  Bailey,  a  creep  passing  down  his 
spine. 

"  Hill !  He  stood  there,  where  you  are  now,  and 

touched  me  with  a  hand  that  was  so  cold — cold " 

and  Evans  shivered  violently.  On  turning  back  the 
collar  of  his  shirt  the  impression  of  a  hand  appeared 
on  the  flesh  near  the  shoulder :  a  hand  in  white, 
with  one  finger  missing.  Hill  had  lost  a  finger. 
There  was  less  of  taverns  after  that  night,  for  Evans 
carried  the  token  of  that  ghostly  visit  on  his  person 
until  he,  too,  had  gone  to  solve  the  great  secret. 

THE   FIRST   LIBERAL   CHURCH 

IN  1770  the  brig  Hand-in-Hand  went  ashore  at 
Good   Luck,   New  Jersey.      Among   the   pas- 
sengers on  board  the  vessel,  that  it  would  perhaps 
be  wrong  to  call  ill  fated,  was  John  Murray,  founder 
of  Universalism  in  America.     He  had  left  England 
in  despair,  for  his  wife  and  children  were  dead,  and 
so  broken  was  he  in  his  power  of  thought  and  pur- 
pose that  he  felt  as  if  he  should  never  preach  again. 
In  fact,  his  rescue  from  the  wreck  was  passive,  on 
his  part,  and  he  suffered  himself  to  be  carried  ashore, 
recking  little  whether  he  reached  it  or  no.     After 
139 


Myths  and  Legends 

he  had  been  for  half  an  hour  or  so  on  the  soil  of 
the  new  country,  to  which  he  had  made  his  entrance 
in  so  unexpected  a  manner,  he  began  to  feel  hungry, 
and  set  off  afoot  along  the  desolate  beach.  He  came 
to  a  cabin  where  an  old  man  stood  in  a  doorway 
with  a  basket  of  fish  beside  him.  "  Will  you  sell 
me  a  fish  ?"  asked  Murray. 

"  No.     The  fish  is  all  yours.     I  expected  you." 
"  You  do  not  know  me." 
"  You  are  the  man  who  is  to  tell  us  of  God." 
"  I  will  never  preach  of  Him  again." 
"  I  built  that  log  church  yonder.     Don't  say  that 
you  will  not  preach  in  it.     Whenever  a  clergyman, 
Presbyterian,   Methody,   or   Baptist,   came    here,   I 
asked  him  to  preach  in  my  kitchen.     I  tried  to  get 
him  to  stay ;  but  no — he  always  had  work  elsewhere. 
Last  night  I  saw  the  brig  driven  on  the  bar,  and  a 
voice  said  to  me,  '  In  that  ship  is  the  man  who  will 
teach  of  God.     Not  the  old  God  of  terrors,  but 
one  of  love  and  mercy.     He  has  come  through  great 
sorrow  to  do  this  work.'     I   have  made  ready  for 
you.     Do  not  go  away." 

The  minister  felt  a  strange  lifting  in  his  heart. 
He  fell  on  his  knees  before  the  little  house  and 
offered  up  a  prayer.  Long  he  staid  in  that  place, 
preaching  gentle  doctrines  and  ministering  to  the 
men  and  women  of  that  lonely  village,  and  when 
the  fisherman  apostle,  Thomas  Potter,  died  he  left 
the  church  to  Murray,  who,  in  turn,  bequeathed  it, 
"  free,  for  the  use  of  all  Christian  people." 
140 


€>n  anS  lirar  tljr  Dclatoarc 

r 


antr  $,ear  tije 


THE   PHANTOM   DRAGOON 

THE  height  that  rises  a  mile  or  so  to  the  south 
of  Newark,  Delaware,  is  called  Iron  Hill, 
because  it  is  rich  in  hematite  ore,  but  about  the  time 
of  General  Howe's  advance  to  the  Brandywine  it 
might  well  have  won  its  name  because  of  the  panoply 
of  war — the  sullen  guns,  the  flashing  swords,  and 
glistening  bayonets — that  appeared  among  the  British 
tents  pitched  on  it.  After  the  red-coats  had  estab- 
lished camp  here  the  American  outposts  were  ad- 
vanced and  one  of  the  pickets  was  stationed  at  Welsh 
Tract  Church.  On  his  first  tour  of  duty  the  sentry 
was  thrown  into  great  alarm  by  the  appearance  of  a 
figure  robed  from  head  to  foot  in  white,  that  rode  a 
horse  at  a  charging  gait  within  ten  feet  of  his  face. 
When  guard  was  relieved  the  soldier  begged  that  he 
might  never  be  assigned  to  that  post  again.  His 
nerves  were  strong  in  the  presence  of  an  enemy  in 
the  flesh — but  an  enemy  out  of  the  grave  !  Ugh  ! 
He  would  desert  rather  than  encounter  that  shape 
again.  His  request  was  granted.  The  sentry  who 
succeeded  him  was  startled,  in  the  small  hours,  by  a 
rush  of  hoofs  and  the  flash  of  a  pallid  form.  He 
143 


Myths  and  Legends 

fired  at  it,  and  thought  that  he  heard  the  sound  of  a 
mocking  laugh  come  back. 

Every  night  the  phantom  horseman  made  his 
rounds,  and  several  times  the  sentinels  shot  at  him 
without  effect,  the  white  horse  and  white  rider  show- 
ing no  annoyance  at  these  assaults.  When  it  came  the 
turn  of  a  sceptical  and  unimaginative  old  corporal  to 
take  the  night  detail,  he  took  the  liberty  of  assuming 
the  responsibilities  of  this  post  himself.  He  looked 
well  to  the  priming  of  his  musket,  and  at  midnight 
withdrew  out  of  the  moonshine  and  waited,  with  his 
gun  resting  on  a  fence.  It  was  not  long  before  the 
beat  of  hoofs  was  heard  approaching,  and  in  spite  of 
himself  the  corporal  felt  a  thrill  along  his  spine  #s  a 
mounted  figure  that  might  have  represented  Death  on 
the  pale  horse  came  into  view ;  but  he  jammed  his 
hat  down,  set  his  teeth,  and  sighted  his  flint-lock 
with  deliberation.  The  rider  was  near,  when  bang 
went  the  corporal's  musket,  and  a  white  form  was 
lying  in  the  road,  a  horse  speeding  into  the  distance. 
Scrambling  over  the  fence,  the  corporal,  reassured, 
ran  to  the  form  and  turned  it  over :  a  British  scout, 
quite  dead.  The  daring  fellow,  relying  on  the 
superstitious  fears  of  the  rustics  in  his  front,  had 
made  a  nightly  ride  as  a  ghost,  in  order  to  keep  the 
American  outposts  from  advancing,  and  also  to  guess, 
from  elevated  points,  at  the  strength  and  disposition 
of  their  troops.  He  wore  a  cuirass  of  steel,  but  that 
did  not  protect  his  brain  from  the  corporal's  bullet. 


144 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

DELAWARE  WATER   GAP 

THE  Indian  name  of  this  beautiful  region, 
Minisink,  "  the  water  is  gone,"  agrees  with 
the  belief  of  geologists  that  a  lake  once  existed  be- 
hind the  Blue  Ridge,  and  that  it  burst  its  way  through 
the  hills  at  this  point.  Similar  results  were  produced 
by  a  cataclysm  on  the  Connecticut  at  Mount  Hoi- 
yoke,  on  the  Lehigh  at  Mauch  Chunk,  and  Runaway 
Pond,  New  Hampshire,  got  its  name  by  a  like  per- 
formance. The  aborigines,  whatever  may  be  said 
against  them,  enjoyed  natural  beauty,  and  their  habi- 
tations were  often  made  in  this  delightful  region, 
their  councils  being  attended  by  chief  Tamanend, 
or  Tammany,  a  Delaware,  whose  wisdom  and  vir- 
tues were  such  as  to  raise  him  to  the  place  of  patron 
saint  of  America.  The  notorious  Tammany  Society 
of  New  York  is  named  for  him.  When  this  chief 
became  old  and  feeble  his  tribe  abandoned  him  in 
a  hut  at  New  Britain,  Pennsylvania,  and  there  he 
tried  to  kill  himself  by  stabbing,  but  failing  in  that, 
he  flung  burning  leaves  over  himself,  and  so  per- 
ished. He  was  buried  where  he  died.  It  was  a 
princess  of  his  tribe  that  gave  the  name  of  Lover's 
Leap  to  a  cliff  on  Mount  Tammany,  by  leaping  from 
it  to  her  death,  because  her  love  for  a  young 
European  was  not  reciprocated. 

There  is  a  silver-mine  somewhere  on  the  opposite 
mountain  of  Minsi,  the   knowledge  of  its   location 
having  perished  with  the  death  of  a  recluse,  who 
145 


Myths  and  Legends 

coined  the  metal  he  took  from  it  into  valuable 
though  illegal  dollars,  going  townward  every  winter 
to  squander  his  earnings.  During  the  Revolution 
"  Oran  the  Hawk,"  a  Tory  and  renegade,  was 
vexatious  to  the  people  of  Delaware  Valley,  and  a 
detachment  of  colonial  troops  was  sent  in  pursuit  of 
him.  They  overtook  him  at  the  Gap  and  chased 
him  up  the  slopes  of  Tammany,  though  he  checked 
their  progress  by  rolling  stones  among  them.  One 
rock  struck  a  trooper,  crushed  him,  and  bore  him 
down  to  the  base  of  a  cliff,  his  blood  smearing  it  in 
his  descent.  But  though  he  seemed  to  have  eluded 
his  pursuers,  Oran  was  shot  in  several  places  during 
his  flight,  and  when  at  last  he  cast  himself  into  a 
thicket,  to  rest  and  get  breath,  it  was  never  to  rise 
again.  His  bones,  cracked  by  bullets  and  gnawed 
by  beasts,  were  found  there  when  the  leaves  fell. 

THE    PHANTOM   DRUMMER 

COLONEL  HOWELL,  of  the  king's  troops, 
V_^  was  a  gay  fellow,  framed  to  make  women 
false;  but  when  he  met  the  rosy,  sweet- natured 
daughter  of  farmer  Jarrett,  near  Valley  Forge,  he 
attempted  no  dalliance,  for  he  fell  too  seriously  in 
love.  He  might  not  venture  into  the  old  man's 
presence,  for  Jarrett  had  a  son  with  Washington, 
and  he  hated  a  red-coat  as  he  did  the  devil ;  but  the 
young  officer  met  the  girl  in  secret,  and  they 
plighted  troth  beneath  the  garden  trees,  hidden  in 
146 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

gray  mist.  As  Howell  bent  to  take  his  first  kiss 
that  night,  a  rising  wind  went  past,  bringing  from 
afar  the  roll  of  a  drum,  and  as  they  talked  the  drum 
kept  drawing  nearer,  until  it  seemed  at  hand.  The 
officer  peered  across  the  wall,  then  hurried  to  his 
mistress'  side,  as  pale  as  death.  The  fields  outside 
were  empty  of  life. 

Louder  came  the  rattling  drum;  it  seemed  to 
enter  the  gate,  pass  but  a  yard  away,  go  through 
the  wall,  and  die  in  the  distance.  When  it  ceased, 
Howell  started  as  if  a  spell  had  been  lifted,  laxed  his 
grip  on  the  maiden's  hand,  then  drew  her  to  his 
breast  convulsively.  Ruth's  terror  was  more  vague 
but  no  less  genuine  than  his  own,  and  some  mo- 
ments passed  before  she  could  summon  voice  to  ask 
him  what  this  visitation  meant.  He  answered, 
"  Something  is  about  to  change  my  fortunes  for 
good  or  ill ;  probably  for  ill.  Important  events  in 
my  family  for  the  past  three  generations  have  been 
heralded  by  that  drum,  and  those  events  were  disas- 
ters oftener  than  benefits."  Few  more  words  passed, 
and  with  another  kiss  the  soldier  scaled  the  wall  and 
galloped  away,  the  triple  beat  of  his  charger's  hoofs 
sounding  back  into  the  maiden's  ears  like  drum-taps. 
In  a  skirmish  next  day  Colonel  Howell  was  shot. 
He  was  carried  to  farmer  Jarrett's  house  and  left 
there,  in  spite  of  the  old  man's  protest,  for  he  was 
willing  to  give  no  shelter  to  his  country's  enemies. 
When  Ruth  saw  her  lover  in  this  strait  she  was  like 
to  have  fallen,  but  when  she  learned  that  it  would 
H7 


Myths  and  Legends 

take  but  a  few  days  of  quiet  and  care  to  restore  him 
to  health,  she  was  ready  to  forgive  her  fellow-coun- 
trymen for  inflicting  an  injury  that  might  result  in 
happiness  for  both  of  them. 

It  took  a  great  deal  of  teasing  to  overcome  the 
scruples  of  the  farmer,  but  he  gruffly  consented  to 
receive  the  young  man  until  his  hurt  should  heal. 
Ruth  attended  him  faithfully,  and  the  cheerful, 
manly  nature  of  the  officer  so  won  the  farmer's 
heart  that  he  soon  forgot  the  color  of  Howell's  coat. 
Nor  was  he  surprised  when  Howell  told  him  that 
he  loved  his  daughter  and  asked  for  her  hand ;  in- 
deed, it  had  been  easy  to  guess  their  affection,  and 
the  old  man  declared  that  but  for  his  allegiance  to  a 
tyrant  he  would  gladly  own  him  as  a  son-in-law. 
It  was  a  long  struggle  between  love  and  duty  that 
ensued  in  Howell's  breast,  and  love  was  victor.  If 
he  might  marry  Ruth  he  would  leave  the  army. 
The  old  man  gave  prompt  consent,  and  a  secret 
marriage  was  arranged.  Howell  had  been  ordered 
to  rejoin  his  regiment ;  he  could  not  honorably  re- 
sign on  the  eve  of  an  impending  battle,  and,  even  had 
he  done  so,  a  long  delay  must  have  preceded  his  re- 
lease. He  would  marry  the  girl,  go  to  the  country, 
live  there  quietly  until  the  British  evacuated  Phila- 
delphia, when  he  would  return  and  cast  his  lot  with 
the  Jarrett  household. 

Howell  donned  citizen's  dress,  and  the  wedding 
took  place  in  the  spacious  best  room  of  the  mansion, 
but  as  he  slipped  the  ring  on  the  finger  of  his  bride 
148 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

the  roll  of  a  drum  was  heard  advancing  up  the  steps 
into  the  room,  then  on  and  away  until  all  was  still 
again.  The  young  colonel  was  pale ;  Ruth  clung 
to  him  in  terror ;  clergymen  and  guests  looked  at 
each  other  in  amazement.  Now  there  were  voices 
at  the  porch,  the  door  was  flung  open,  armed  men 
entered,  and  the  bridegroom  was  a  prisoner.  He 
was  borne  to  his  quarters,  and  afterward  tried  for 
desertion,  for  a  servant  in  the  Jarrett  household, 
hating  all  English  and  wishing  them  to  suffer,  even 
at  each  other's  hands,  had  betrayed  the  plan  of  his 
master's  guest.  The  court-martial  found  him  guilty 
and  condemned  him  to  be  shot.  When  the  execu- 
tion took  place,  Ruth,  praying  and  sobbing  in  her 
chamber,  knew  that  her  husband  was  no  more. 
The  distant  sound  of  musketry  reverberated  like  the 
roll  of  a  drum. 


THE   MISSING   SOLDIER   OF   VALLEY 
FORGE 

DURING  the  dreadful  winter  of  the  American 
encampment   at   Valley   Forge   six   or  eight 
soldiers  went  out  to  forage  for  provisions.     Knowing 
that  little  was  to   be  hoped   for  near  the  camp  of 
their  starving  comrades,  they  set  off  in  the  direction 
of  French  Creek.     At  this  stream  the  party  sepa- 
rated, and  a  little  later  two   of  the  men  were  at- 
tacked by  Tory   farmers.     Flying  along  the  creek 
for  some  distance  they  came  to  a  small   cave   in  a 
149 


Myths  and  Legends 

bluff,  and  one  of  them,  a  young  Southerner  named 
Carrington,  scrambled  into  it.  His  companion  was 
not  far  behind,  and  was  hurrying  toward  the  cave, 
when  he  was  arrested  by  a  rumble  and  a  crash :  a 
block  of  granite,  tons  in  weight,  that  had  hung 
poised  overhead,  slid  from  its  place  and  completely 
blocked  the  entrance.  The  stifled  cry  of  despair 
from  the  living  occupant  of  the  tomb  struck  to  his 
heart.  He  hid  in  a  neighboring  wood  until  the 
Tories  had  dispersed,  then,  returning  to  the  cave, 
he  strove  with  might  and  main  to  stir  the  boulder 
from  its  place,  but  without  avail. 

When  he  reached  camp,  as  he  did  next  day,  he 
told  of  this  disaster,  but  the  time  for  rescue  was  be- 
lieved to  be  past,  or  the  work  was  thought  to  be  too 
exhausting  and  dangerous  for  a  body  of  men  who 
had  much  ado  to  keep  life  in  their  own  weak  frames. 
It  was  a  double  tragedy,  for  the  young  man's  sweet- 
heart never  recovered  from  the  shock  that  the  news 
occasioned,  and  on  her  tomb,  near  Richmond,  Vir- 
ginia, these  words  are  chiselled  :  "  Died,  of  a  broken 
heart,  on  the  1st  of  March,  1780,  Virginia  Ran- 
dolph, aged  21  years,  9  days.  Faithful  unto  death." 
In  the  summer  of  1889  some  workmen,  blasting  rock 
near  the  falls  on  French  Creek,  uncovered  the  long- 
concealed  cavern  and  found 'there  a  skeleton  with  a 
few  rags  of  a  Continental  uniform.  In  a  bottle  be- 
side it  was  an  account,  signed  by  Arthur  L.  Carring- 
ton, of  the  accident  that  had  befallen  him,  and  a 
letter  declaring  undying  love  for  his  sweetheart. 
150 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

He  had  starved  to  death.  The  bones  were  neatly 
coffined,  and  were  sent  to  Richmond  to  be  buried 
beside  those  of  the  faithful  Miss  Randolph. 

THE   LAST   SHOT   AT   GERMANTOWN 

MANY  are  the  tales  of  prophecy  that  have 
been  preserved  to  us  from  war  times. 
In  the  beginning  of  King  Philip's  war  in  Connecti- 
cut, in  1675,  it  was  reported  that  the  firing  of  the 
first  gun  was  heard  all  over  the  State,  while  the  drum- 
beats calling  settlers  to  defence  were  audible  eight 
miles  away.  Braddock's  defeat  and  the  salvation  of 
Washington  were  foretold  by  a  Miami  chief  at  a 
council  held  in  Fort  Ponchartrain,  on  Detroit  River, 
the  ambush  and  the  slaughter  having  been  revealed 
to  him  in  a  dream.  The  victims  of  that  battle,  too, 
had  been  apprised,  for  one  or  two  nights  before  the 
disaster  a  young  lieutenant  in  Braddock's  command 
saw  his  fellow-officers  pass  through  his  tent,  bloody 
and  torn,  and  when  the  first  gun  sounded  he  knew 
that  it  spoke  the  doom  of  nearly  all  his  comrades. 
At  Killingly,  Connecticut,  in  the  autumn  before  the 
outbreak  of  the  Revolution,  a  distant  roar  of  artillery 
was  heard  for  a  whole  day  and  night  in  the  direction 
of  Boston,  mingled  with  a  rattle  of  musketry,  and 
so  strong  was  the  belief  that  war  had  begun  and  the 
British  were  advancing,  that  the  minute  men  mus- 
tered to  await  orders.  It  was  afterward  argued  that 
these  noises  came  from  an  explosion  of  meteors,  a 


Myths  and  Legends 

shower  of  these  missiles  being  then  in  progress, 
invisible,  of  course,  in  the  day-time.  Just  after 
the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  the 
royal  arms  on  the  spire  of  the  Episcopal  church  at 
Hampton,  Virginia,  were  struck  off  by  lightning. 
Shortly  before  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis  a  display 
of  northern  lights  was  seen  in  New  England,  the 
rays  taking  the  form  of  cannon,  facing  southward. 
In  Connecticut  sixty-four  of  these  guns  were 
counted. 

At  the  battle  of  Germantown  the  Americans  were 
enraged  by  the  killing  of  one  of  their  men  who  had 
gone  out  with  a  flag  of  truce.  He  was  shot  from  the 
windows  of  Judge  Chew's  house,  which  was  crowded 
with  British  soldiers,  and  as  he  fell  to  the  lawn, 
dyeing  the  peaceful  emblem  with  his  blood,  at  least 
one  of  the  Continentals  swore  that  his  death  should 
be  well  avenged.  The  British  reinforcements,  six- 
teen thousand  strong,  came  hurrying  through  the 
street,  their  officers  but  half-dressed,  so  urgent  had 
been  the  summons  for  their  aid.  Except  for  their 
steady  tramp  the  place  was  silent ;  doors  were  locked 
and  shutters  bolted,  and  if  people  were  within  doors 
no  sign  of  them  was  visible.  General  Agnew  alone 
of  all  the  troop  seemed  depressed  and  anxious. 
Turning  to  an  aide  as  they  passed  the  Mennonist 
graveyard,  he  said,  "  This  field  is  the  last  I  shall 
fight  on." 

An  eerie  face  peered  over  the  cemetery  wall,  a 
scarred,  unshaven  face  framed  in  long  hair  and  sur- 
152 


CHKU 


Myths  an  ids 

shower  of  these   missiles   being   then   in   pro[  • 
invisible,  of  course,   in    the   day-time.      Just   after 
the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  the 
royal  arms  on  the  spire  of  the  Episcopal  church  at 
Hampton,  Virginia,  were    struck  off  by  lightr 
Shortly  before  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis  a  di^ 
of  northern  lights  was  seen   in   New  England,  the 
rays  taking  the  form  of  cannon,  facing  southward. 
In    Connecticut    sixty-four    of    these    guns    were 
counted. 

At  the  battle  of  Germantown  the  Americans  were 
enraged  by  the  killing  of  one  of  their  men  who  had 
gone  out  with  a  flag  of  truce.     He  was  shot  fro-; 
windows  of  Judge  Chew's  h^ 

with  British   soldiers,  and  as  he  iwn, 

dyeing  the  peaceful  emblem  with  his  blood,  at  lent 
one  of  the  Continentals  swore  th  rh  should 

be  well  avenged.     The  Brit  .rcements,  six- 

teen thousand  strong,  came  hurrying  through  the 
street,  their  officers  but  half-dressed,  so  urgent  had 
been  the  summons  for  their  aid.  Except  for  their 
steady  tramp  the  place  was  silent ;  doors  were  locked 
and  shutters  bolted,  and  if  people  were  within  doors 
no  sign  of  them  was  visible.  General  Agnew  alone 
of  all  the  troop  seemed  depressed  and  anxious. 
Turning  to  an  aide  as  they  passed  the  Mennonist 
graveyard,  he  said,  "  This  field  is  the  last  I  shall 
fight  on." 

An  eerie  f«Wfi,TpgRJ5ft4)  ofce,r)Fjh.£,,f --.  wall,  a 

scarred,  unshaven  face  framed  in  1  and  sur- 

15* 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

mounting  a  body  clothed  in  skins,  with  the  question, 
"  Is  that  the  brave  General  Gray  who  beat  the  rebels 
at  Paoli  ?"  One  of  the  soldiers,  with  a  careless  toss 
of  the  hand,  seemed  to  indicate  General  Agnew.  A 
moment  later  there  was  a  report,  a  puff  of  smoke 
from  the  cemetery  wall,  and  a  bullet  whizzed  by  the 
head  of  the  general,  who  smiled  wanly,  to  encourage 
his  men.  Summary  execution  would  have  been  done 
upon  the  stranger  had  not  a  body  of  American  cav- 
alry dashed  against  the  red-coats  at  that  moment, 
and  a  fierce  contest  was  begun.  When  the  day  was 
over,  General  Agnew,  who  had  been  separated  from 
his  command  in  the  confusion  of  battle,  came  past 
the  graves  again.  Tired  and  depressed,  he  drew 
rein  for  a  moment  to  breathe  the  sweet  air,  so  lately 
fouled  with  dust  and  smoke,  and  to  watch  the 
gorgeous  light  of  sunset.  Again,  like  a  malignant 
genius  of  the  place,  the  savage-looking  stranger  arose 
from  behind  the  wall.  A  sharp  report  broke  the 
quiet  of  evening  and  awoke  clattering  echoes  from 
the  distant  houses.  A  horse  plunged  and  General 
Agnew  rolled  from  his  saddle,  dead :  the  last  victim 
in  the  strife  at  Germantown. 

A   BLOW   IN   THE   DARK 

r  I  ^HE  Tory  Manheim  sits  brooding  in  his  farm- 

_L       house  near  Valley  Forge,  and  his  daughter, 

with  a  hectic  flush  on  her  cheek,  looks  out  into  the 

twilight  at  the  falling  snow.     She  is  worn  and  ill ; 

'S3 


Myths  and  Legends 

she  has  brought  on  a  fever  by  exposure  incurred 
that  very  day  in  a  secret  journey  to  the  American 
camp,  made  to  warn  her  lover  of  another  attempt  on 
the  life  of  Washington,  who  must  pass  her  father's 
house  on  his  return  from  a  distant  settlement.  The 
Tory  knows  nothing  of  this ;  but  he  starts  whenever 
the  men  in  the  next  room  rattle  the  dice  or  break 
into  a  ribald  song,  and  a  frown  of  apprehension 
crosses  his  face  as  the  foragers  crunch  by,  half-bare- 
foot, through  the  snow.  The  hours  go  on,  and  the 
noise  in  the  next  room  increases ;  but  it  hushes  sud- 
denly when  a  knock  at  the  door  is  heard.  The 
Tory  opens  it,  and  trembles  as  a  tall,  grave  man, 
with  the  figure  of  an  athlete,  steps  into  the  fire-light 
and  calmly  removes  his  gloves.  "  I  have  been 
riding  far,"  said  he.  "  Can  you  give  me  some  food 
and  the  chance  to  sleep  for  an  hour,  until  the  storm 
clears  up  ?" 

Manheim  says  that  he  can,  and  shuffling  into  the 
next  room,  he  whispers,  "  Washington  !"  The 
girl  is  sent  out  to  get  refreshments.  It  is  in  vain 
that  she  seeks  to  sign  or  speak  to  the  man  who  sits 
there  so  calmly  before  the  fire,  for  her  father  is 
never  out  of  sight  or  hearing.  After  Washington 
has  finished  his  modest  repast  he  asks  to  be  left  to 
himself  for  a  while,  but  the  girl  is  told  to  conduct 
him  to  the  room  on  the  left  of  the  landing  on  the 
next  floor. 

Her  father  holds  the  candle  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs  until  he  sees  his  guest  enter ;  then  he  bids  his 
'54 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

daughter  go  to  her  own  bed,  which  is  in  the  cham- 
ber on  the  right  of  the  landing.  There  is  busy  whis- 
pering in  the  room  below  after  that,  and  the  dice 
box  is  shaken  to  see  to  whose  lot  it  shall  fall  to  steal 
up  those  stairs  and  stab  Washington  in  his  sleep. 
An  hour  passes  and  all  in  the  house  appear  to  be  at 
rest,  but  the  stairs  creak  slightly  as  Manheim  creeps 
upon  his  prey.  He  blows  his  candle  out  and  softly 
enters  the  chamber  on  the  left.  The  men,  who 
listen  in  the  dark  at  the  foot  of  the  stair,  hear  a 
moan,  and  the  Tory  hurries  back  with  a  shout  of 
gladness,  for  the  rebel  chief  is  no  more  and  Howe's 
reward  will  enrich  them  for  life. 

Glasses  are  filled,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  re- 
joicing a  step  is  heard  on  the  stair.  Washington 
stands  before  them.  In  calm,  deep  tones  he  thanks 
the  farmer  for  his  shelter,  and  asks  that  his  horse 
be  brought  to  the  door  and  his  reckoning  be  made 
out.  The  Tory  stares  as  one  bereft.  Then  he 
rushes  aloft,  flings  open  the  door  of  the  room 
on  the  left,  and  gazes  at  the  face  that  rests  on  the 
pillow, — a  pillow  that  is  dabbled  with  red.  The 
face  is  that  of  his  daughter.  The  name  of  father  is 
one  that  he  will  never  hear  again  in  this  world. 
The  candle  falls  from  his  hand ;  he  sinks  to  the 
floor ;  be  his  sin  forgiven !  Outside  is  heard  the 
tramp  of  a  horse.  It  is  that  of  Washington,  who 
rides  away,  ignorant  of  the  peril  he  has  passed  and 
the  sacrifice  that  averted  it. 


'55 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   TORY'S   CONVERSION 

IN  his  firelit  parlor,  in  his  little  house  at  Valley 
Forge,  old  Michael  Kuch  sits  talking  with  his 
daughter.  But  though  it  is  Christmas  eve  the  talk 
has  little  cheer  in  it.  The  hours  drag  on  until  the 
clock  strikes  twelve,  and  the  old  man  is  about  to 
offer  his  evening  prayer  for  the  safety  of  his  son, 
who  is  one  of  Washington's  troopers,  when  hurried 
steps  are  heard  in  the  snow,  there  is  a  fumbling  at 
the  latch,  then  the  door  flies  open  and  admits  a 
haggard,  panting  man  who  hastily  closes  it  again, 
falls  into  a  seat,  and  shakes  from  head  to  foot.  The 
girl  goes  to  him.  "John!"  she  says.  But  he  only 
averts  his  face.  "  What  is  wrong  with  thee,  John 
Blake  ?"  asks  the  farmer.  But  he  has  to  ask  again 
and  again  ere  he  gets  an  answer.  Then,  in  a  broken 
voice,  the  trembling  man  confesses  that  he  has  tried 
to  shoot  Washington,  but  the  bullet  struck  and  killed 
his  only  attendant,  a  dragoon.  He  has  come  for 
shelter,  for  men  are  on  his  track  already.  "  Thou 
know'st  I  am  neutral  in  this  war,  John  Blake,"  an- 
swered the  farmer,  "  although  I  have  a  boy  down 
yonder  in  the  camp.  It  was  a  cowardly  thing  to 
do,  and  I  hate  you  Tories  that  you  do  not  fight  like 
men ;  yet,  since  you  ask  me  for  a  hiding-place,  you 
shall  have  it,  though,  mind  you,  'tis  more  on  the 
girl's  account  than  yours.  The  men  are  coming. 
Out — this  way — to  the  spring-house.  So  !" 

Before   old    Michael    has    time   to   return  to   his 
156 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

chair  the  door  is  again  thrust  open,  this  time  by 
men  in  blue  and  buff.  They  demand  the  assassin, 
whose  footsteps  they  have  tracked  there  through  the 
snow.  Michael  does  not  answer.  They  are  about 
to  use  violence  when,  through  the  open  door,  comes 
Washington,  who  checks  them  with  a  word.  The 
general  bears  a  drooping  form  with  a  blood  splash  on 
its  breast,  and  deposits  it  on  the  hearth  as  gently  as 
a  mother  puts  a  babe  into  its  cradle.  As  the  fire- 
light falls  on  the  still  face  the  farmer's  eyes  grow 
round  and  big ;  then  he  shrieks  and  drops  upon  his 
knees,  for  it  is  his  son  who  is  lying  there.  Beside 
him  is  a  pistol ;  it  was  dropped  by  the  Tory  when 
he  entered.  Grasping  it  eagerly  the  farmer  leaps  to 
his  feet.  His  years  have  fallen  from  him.  With 
a  tiger-like  bound  he  gains  the  door,  rushes  to  the 
spring-house  where  John  Blake  is  crouching,  his 
eyes  sunk  and  shining,  gnawing  his  fingers  in  a  craze 
of  dismay.  But  though  hate  is  swift,  love  is  swifter, 
and  the  girl  is  there  as  soon  as  he.  She  strikes  his 
arm  aside,  and  the  bullet  he  has  fired  lodges  in  the 
wood.  He  draws  out  his  knife,  and  the  murderer, 
to  whom  has  now  come  the  calmness  of  despair, 
kneels  and  offers  his  breast  to  the  blade.  Before 
he  can  strike,  the  soldiers  hasten  up,  and  seizing 
Blake,  they  drag  him  to  the  house — the  little  room 
— where  all  had  been  so  peaceful  but  a  few  minutes 
before. 

The  culprit  is  brought  face  to  face  with  Washing- 
ton, who  asks  him  what  harm  he  has  ever  suffered 


Myths  and  Legends 

from  his  fellow  countrymen  that  he  should  turn 
against  them  thus.  Blake  hangs  his  head  and  owns 
his  willingness  to  die.  His  eyes  rest  on  the  form 
extended  on  the  floor,  and  he  shudders ;  but  his 
features  undergo  an  almost  joyous  change,  for  the 
figure  lifts  itself,  and  in  a  faint  voice  calls,  "  Father  !" 
The  young  man  lives.  With  a  cry  of  delight  both 
father  and  sister  raise  him  in  their  arms.  "  You 
are  not  yet  prepared  to  die,"  says  Washington  to 
the  captive.  "  I  will  put  you  under  guard  until 
you  are  wanted.  Take  him  into  custody,  my  dear 
young  lady,  and  try  to  make  an  American  of  him. 
See,  it  is  one  o'clock,  and  this  is  Christmas  morn- 
ing. May  all  be  happy  here.  Come."  And 
beckoning  to  his  men  he  rides  away,  though  Blake 
and  his  affianced  would  have  gone  on  their  knees 
before  him.  Revulsion  of  feeling,  love,  thankful- 
ness and  a  latent  patriotism  wrought  a  quick  change 
in  Blake.  When  young  Kuch  recovered  Blake  joined 
his  regiment,  and  no  soldier  served  the  flag  more 
honorably. 

LORD    PERCY'S   DREAM 

LEAVING  the  dissipations  of  the  English  court, 
Lord  Percy  came  to  America  to  share  the  for- 
tunes of  his  brethren  in  the  contest  then  raging  on  our 
soil.  His  father  had  charged  him  with  the  delivery 
of  a  certain  package  to  an  Indian  woman,  should 
he  meet  her  in  his  rambles  through  the  western 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

wilds,  and,  without  inquiring  into  the  nature  of  the 
gift  or  its  occasion,  he  accepted  the  trust.  At  the 
battle  of  the  Brandywine — strangely  foretold  by 
Quaker  prophecy  forty  years  before — he  was  de- 
tailed by  Cornwallis  to  drive  the  colonial  troops  out 
of  a  graveyard  where  they  had  intrenched  themselves, 
and  though  he  set  upon  this  errand  with  the  enthu- 
siasm of  youth,  his  cheek  paled  as  he  drew  near  the 
spot  where  the  enemy  was  waiting. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  actual  physical  fear  of  the 
onset:  he  had  dreamed  a  dream  a  few  nights  before, 
the  purport  of  which  he  had  hinted  to  his  comrades, 
and  as  he  rode  into  the  clearing  at  the  top  of 
Osborn's  Hill  he  drew  rein  and  exclaimed,  "  My 
dream !  Yonder  is  the  graveyard.  I  am  fated  to 
die  there."  Giving  a  few  of  his  effects  to  his 
brother  officers,  and  charging  one  of  them  to  take 
a  message  of  love  to  his  betrothed  in  England,  he 
set  his  lips  and  rode  forward. 

His  cavalry  bound  toward  the  scene  of  action  and 
are  within  thirty  paces  of  the  cemetery  wall,  when 
from  behind  it  rises  a  battalion  of  men  in  the  green 
uniform  of  the  Santee  Rangers  and  pours  a  wither- 
ing fire  into  the  ranks.  The  shock  is  too  great  to 
withstand,  and  the  red-coats  stagger  away  with 
broken  ranks,  leaving  many  dead  and  wounded  on 
the  ground.  Lord  Percy  is  the  coolest  of  all.  He 
urges  the  broken  columns  forward,  and  almost  alone 
holds  the  place  until  the  infantry,  a  hundred  yards 
behind,  come  up.  Thereupon  ensues  one  of  those 
159 


Myths  and  Legends 

hand-to-hand  encounters  that  are  so  rare  in  recent 
war,  and  that  are  the  sorest  test  of  valor  and  disci- 
pline. Now  rides  forward  Captain  Waldemar, 
chief  of  the  rangers  and  a  half-breed  Indian,  who, 
seeing  Percy,  recognizes  him  as  an  officer  and  en- 
gages him  in  combat.  There  is  for  a  minute  a  clash 
of  steel  on  steel ;  then  the  nobleman  falls  heavily  to 
the  earth — dead.  His  dream  has  come  true.  That 
night  the  captain  Waldemar  seeks  out  the  body  of 
this  officer,  attracted  by  something  in  the  memory 
of  his  look,  and  from  his  bosom  takes  the  packet 
that  was  committed  to  his  care. 

By  lantern-light  he  reads,  carelessly  at  first,  then 
rapidly  and  eagerly,  and  at  the  close  he  looks  long 
and  earnestly  at  the  dead  man,  and  seems  to  brush 
away  a  tear.  Strange  thing  to  do  over  the  body  of 
an  enemy !  Why  had  fate  decreed  that  they  should 
be  enemies  ?  For  Waldemar  is  the  half-brother  of 
Percy.  His  mother  was  the  Indian  girl  that  the 
earl,  now  passing  his  last  days  in  England,  had  de- 
ceived with  a  pretended  marriage,  and  the  letters 
promise  patronage  to  her  son.  The  half-breed  digs 
a  grave  that  night  with  his  own  hands  and  lays  the 
form  of  his  brother  in  it. 

SAVED   BY   THE   BIBLE 

IT  was  on  the  day  after  the  battle  of  Germantown 
that  Warner,  who  wore  the  blue,  met  his  hated 
neighbor,  the  Tory  Dabney,  near  that  bloody  field. 
1 60 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

By  a  common  impulse  the  men  fell  upon  each  other 
with  their  knives,  and  Warner  soon  had  his  enemy 
in  a  position  to  give  him  the  death-stroke,  but  Dab- 
ney  began  to  bellow  for  quarter.  "  My  brother 
cried  for  quarter  at  Paoli,"  answered  the  other, 
"  and  you  struck  him  to  the  heart." 

"  I  have  a  wife  and  child.  Spare  me  for  their 
sakes." 

"  My  brother  had  a  wife  and  two  children. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  beg  your  life  of  them." 

Though  made  in  mockery,  this  proposition  was 
caught  at  so  earnestly  that  Warner  at  length  con- 
sented to  take  his  adversary,  firmly  bound,  to  the 
house  where  the  bereaved  family  was  living.  The 
widow  was  reading  the  Bible  to  her  children,  but 
her  grief  was  too  fresh  to  gather  comfort  from  it. 
When  Dabney  was  flung  into  the  room  he  grovelled 
at  her  feet  and  begged  piteously  for  mercy.  Her 
face  did  not  soften,  but  there  was  a  kind  of  contempt 
in  the  settled  sadness  of  her  tone  as  she  said,  "  It 
shall  be  as  God  directs.  I  will  close  this  Bible, 
open  it  at  chance,  and  when  this  boy  shall  put  his 
finger  at  random  on  a  line,  by  that  you  must  live  or 
die." 

The  book  was  opened,  and  the  child  put  his 
finger  on  a  line :  "  That  man  shall  die." 

Warner  drew  his  knife  and  motioned  his  prisoner 
to  the  door.  He  was  going  to  lead  him  into  the 
wood  to  offer  him  as  a  sacrifice  to  his  brother's 
spirit. 

161 


Myths  and  Legends 

"  No,  no  !"  shrieked  the  wretch.  "  Give  me  one 
more  chance ;  one  more !  Let  the  girl  open  the 
book." 

The  woman  coldly  consents,  and  when  the  book 
is  opened  for  the  second  time  she  reads,  "  Love  your 
enemies."  There  are  no  other  words.  The  knife 
is  used,  but  it  is  to  cut  the  prisoner's  bonds,  and  he 
walks  away  with  head  hung  down,  never  more  to 
take  arms  against  his  countrymen.  And  glad  are 
they  all  at  this,  when  the  husband  is  brought  home — 
not  dead,  though  left  among  the  corpses  at  Paoli, 
but  alive  and  certain  of  recovery,  with  such  nursing 
as  his  wife  will  give  him.  After  tears  of  joy  have 
been  shed  she  tells  him  the  story  of  the  Bible 
judgment,  and  all  the  members  of  the  family  fall  on 
their  knees  in  thanksgiving  that  the  blood  of  Dabney 
is  not  upon  their  heads. 

PARRICIDE   OF   THE   W1SSAHICKON 

FARMER  DERWENT  and  his  four  stout  sons 
set  off  on  an  autumn  night  for  the  meeting 
of  patriots  at  a  house  on  the  Wissahickon, — a  meet- 
ing that  bodes  no  good  to  the  British  encamped  in 
Philadelphia,  let  the  red-coats  laugh  as  they  will  at 
the  rag-tag  and  bob-tail  that  are  joining  the  army  of 
Mr.  Washington  in  the  wilds  of  the  Skippack.  The 
farmer  sighs  as  he  thinks  that  his  younger  son  alone 
should  be  missing  from  the  company,  and  wonders 
for  the  thousandth  time  what  has  become  of  the 
162 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

boy.  They  sit  by  a  rock  that  juts  into  the  road  to 
trim  their  lantern,  and  while  they  talk  together  they 
are  startled  by  an  exclamation.  It  is  from  Ellen, 
the  adopted  daughter  of  Derwent  and  the  betrothed 
of  his  missing  son.  On  the  night  that  the  boy  stole 
away  from  his  father's  house  he  asked  her  to  meet 
him  in  this  place  in  a  year's  time,  and  the  year  is  up 
to-night. 

But  it  is  not  to  meet  him  that  she  is  hastening 
now  :  she  has  heard  that  the  British  have  learned 
of  the  patriot  gathering  and  will  try  to  make  prison- 
ers of  the  company.  Even  as  she  tells  of  this  there 
is  a  sound  to  the  southward :  the  column  is  on  the 
march.  The  farmer's  eye  blazes  with  rage  and 
hate.  "  Boys,"  he  says,  "  yonder  come  those  who 
intend  to  kill  us.  Let  them  taste  of  their  own  war- 
fare. Stand  here  in  the  shadow  and  fire  as  they  pass 
this  rock." 

The  troopers  ride  on,  chuckling  over  their  sure 
success,  when  there  is  a  report  of  rifles  and  four  of 
the  red-coats  are  in  the  dust.  The  survivors,  though 
taken  by  surprise,  prove  their  courage  by  halting  to 
answer  the  volley,  and  one  of  them  springs  from  his 
saddle,  seizes  Derwent,  and  plunges  a  knife  into  his 
throat.  The  rebel  falls.  His  blood  pools  around 
him.  The  British  are  successful,  for  two  of  the 
young  men  are  bound  and  two  of  them  have  fallen, 
and  there  is  a  cheer  of  victory,  but  the  trooper  with 
the  knife  in  his  hand  does  not  raise  his  voice.  He 
bends  above  the  farmer  as  still  as  one  dead,  until  his 
163 


Myths  and  Legends 

captain  claps  him  on  the  shoulder.  As  he  rises,  the 
prisoners  start  in  wonder,  for  the  face  they  see  in 
the  lantern-light  is  that  of  their  brother,  yet  strange 
in  its  haggardness  and  its  smear  of  blood  on  the 
cheek.  The  girl  runs  from  her  hiding-place  with  a 
cry,  but  stands  in  horror  when  her  foot  touches  the 
gory  pool  in  the  road.  The  trooper  opens  his  coat 
and  offers  her  a  locket.  It  contains  her  picture,  and 
he  has  worn  it  above  his  heart  for  a  year,  but  she 
lets  it  fall  and  sinks  down,  moaning.  The  soldier 
tears  off  his  red  coat,  tramples  it  in  the  dust,  then 
vaulting  to  his  saddle  he  plunges  into  the  river,  fords 
it,  and  crashes  through  the  underbrush  on  the  other 
side.  In  a  few  minutes  he  has  reached  the  summit 
of  a  rock  that  rises  nearly  a  hundred  feet  above  the 
stream.  The  horse  halts  at  the  edge,  but  on  a  fierce 
stab  of  the  spur  into  his  flank  he  takes  the  leap. 
With  a  despairing  yell  the  traitor  and  parricide  goes 
into  eternity. 

THE   BLACKSMITH   AT   BRANDYWINE 

rT"*ERRIBLE  in  the  field  at  Brandywine  was  the 

_L       figure  of  a  man  armed  only  with  a  hammer, 

who  plunged  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  heedless 

of  his  own  life,  yet  seeming  to  escape  their  shots 

and  sabre    cuts  by  magic,  and  with   Thor   strokes 

beat  them    to    the    earth.      But   yesterday   war    had 

been  to  him  a  distant  rumor,  a  thing  as  far  from  his 

cottage  at  Dilworth  as  if  it  had  been  in  Europe,  but 

164 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

he  had  revolted  at  a  plot  that  he  had  overheard  to 
capture  Washington  and  had  warned  the  general. 
In  revenge  the  Tories  had  burned  his  cottage,  and 
his  wife  and  baby  had  perished  in  the  flames.  All 
day  he  had  sat  beside  the  smoking  ruins,  unable  to 
weep,  unable  to  think,  unable  almost  to  suffer,  ex- 
cept dumbly,  for  as  yet  he  could  not  understand  it. 
But  when  the  drums  were  heard  they  roused  the 
tiger  in  him,  and  gaunt  with  sleeplessness  and  hunger 
he  joined  his  countrymen  and  ranged  like  Ajax  on 
the  field.  Every  cry  for  quarter  was  in  vain  :  to 
every  such  appeal  he  had  but  one  reply, — his  wife's 
name — Mary. 

Near  the  end  of  the  fight  he  lay  beside  the  road, 
his  leg  broken,  his  flesh  torn,  his  life  ebbing  from 
a  dozen  wounds.  A  wagoner,  hasting  to  join  the 
American  retreat,  paused  to  give  him  drink.  "  I've 
only  five  minutes  more  of  life  in  me,"  said  the 
smith.  "  Can  you  lift  me  into  that  tree  and  put  a 
rifle  in  my  hands  ?"  The  powerful  teamster  raised 
him  to  the  crotch  of  an  oak,  and  gave  him  the  rifle 
and  ammunition  that  a  dying  soldier  had  dropped 
there.  A  band  of  red-coats  came  running  down  the 
road,  chasing  some  farmers.  The  blacksmith  took 
careful  aim ;  there  was  a  report,  and  the  leader  of 
the  band  fell  dead.  A  pause ;  again  a  report  rang 
out,  and  a  trooper  sprawled  upon  the  ground.  The 
marksman  had  been  seen,  and  a  lieutenant  was  urging 
his  men  to  hurry  on  and  cut  him  down.  There  was 
a  third  report,  and  the  lieutenant  reeled  forward  into 
165 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  road,  bleeding  and  cursing.  "  That's  for  Mary," 
gasped  the  blacksmith.  The  rifle  dropped  from  his 
hands,  and  he,  too,  sank  lifeless  against  the  boughs. 


FATHER   AND   SON 

IT  was  three  soldiers,  escaping  from  the  rout  of 
Braddock's  forces,  who  caught  the  alleged  be- 
trayer of  their  general  and  put  him  to  the  death. 
They  threw  his  purse  of  ill-gotten  louis  d'or  into  the 
river,  and  sent  him  swinging  from  the  edge  of  a 
ravine,  with  a  vine  about  his  neck  and  a  placard  on 
his  breast.  And  so  they  left  him. 

Twenty  years  pass,  and  the  war-fires  burn  more 
fiercely  in  the  vales  of  Pennsylvania,  but,  too  old  to 
fight,  the  schoolmaster  sits  at  his  door  near  Chad's 
Ford  and  smokes  and  broods  upon  the  past.  He 
thinks  of  the  time  when  he  marched  with  Washing- 
ton, when  with  two  wounded  comrades  he  returned 
along  the  lonely  trail ;  then  comes  the  vision  of  a 
blackening  face,  and  he  rises  and  wipes  his  brow. 
"  It  was  right,"  he  mutters.  "  He  sent  a  thousand 
of  his  brothers  to  their  deaths." 

Gilbert  Gates  comes  that  evening  to  see  the  old 
man's  daughter :  a  smooth,  polite  young  fellow,  but 
Mayland  cannot  like  him,  and  after  some  short  talk 
he  leaves  him,  pleading  years  and  rheumatism,  and 
goes  to  bed.  But  not  .to  sleep;  for  toward  ten 
o'clock  his  daughter  goes  to  him  and  urges  him  to 
fly,  for  men  are  gathering  near  the  house — Tories, 
166 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

she  is  sure, — and  they  mean  no  good.  Laughing  at 
her  fears,  but  willing  to  relieve  her  anxiety,  the  old 
man  slips  into  his  clothes,  goes  into  the  cellar,  and 
thence  starts  for  the  barn,  while  the  girl  remains  for 
a  few  minutes  to  hide  the  silver. 

He  does  not  go  far  before  Gates  is  at  his  elbow 
with  the  whispered  words,  "  Into  the  stack — quick. 
They  are  after  you."  Mayland  hesitates  with  dis- 
trust, but  the  appearance  of  men  with  torches  leaves 
no  time  for  talk.  With  Gilbert's  help  he  crawls 
deep  into  the  straw  and  is  covered  up.  Presently  a 
rough  voice  asks  which  way  he  has  gone.  Gilbert 
replies  that  he  has  gone  to  the  wood,  but  there  is  no 
need  for  getting  into  a  passion,  and  that  on  no  ac- 
count would  it  be  advisable  to  fire  the  stack.  "  Won't 
we  though  ?"  cries  one  of  the  party.  "  We'll  burn 
the  rebel  out  of  house  and  home,"  and  thrusting  his 
torch  into  the  straw  it  is  ablaze  in  an  instant.  The 
crowd  hurries  away  toward  the  wood,  and  does  not 
hear  the  stifled  groan  that  comes  out  of  the  middle 
of  the  fire.  Gates  takes  a  paper  from  his  pocket, 
and,  after  reading  it  for  the  last  time,  flings  it  upon 
the  flame.  It  bears  the  inscription,  "  Isaac  Gates, 
Traitor  and  Spy,  hung  by  three  soldiers  of  his 
majesty's  army.  Isaac  Mayland." 

From  his  moody  contemplation  he  rouses  with  a 
start,  for  Mayland's  daughter  is  there.  Her  eyes 
are  bent  on  a  distorted  thing  that  lies  among  the 
embers,  and  in  the  dying  light  of  the  flames  it  seems 
to  move.  She  studies  it  close,  then  with  a  cry  of 
167 


Myths  and  Legends 

pain  and  terror  she  falls  upon  the  hot  earth,  and  her 
senses  go  out,  not  to  be  regained  in  woful  years. 
With  head  low  bowed,  Gilbert  Gates  trudges  away. 
In  the  fight  at  Brandywine  next  day,  Black  Samson, 
a  giant  negro,  armed  with  a  scythe,  sweeps  his  way 
through  the  red  ranks  like  a  sable  figure  of  Time. 
Mayland  had  taught  him ;  his  daughter  had  given  him 
food.  It  is  to  avenge  them  that  he  is  fighting.  In 
the  height  of  the  conflict  he  enters  the  American 
ranks  leading  a  prisoner — Gilbert  Gates.  The  young 
man  is  pale,  stern,  and  silent.  His  deed  is  known  : 
he  is  a  spy  as  well  as  a  traitor,  but  he  asks  no  mercy. 
It  is  rumored  that  next  day  he  alone,  of  the  prisoners, 
was  led  to  a  wood  and  lashed  by  arms  and  legs  to  a 
couple  of  hickory  trees  that  had  been  bent  by  a  pro- 
digious effort  and  tied  together  by  their  tops.  The 
lashing  was  cut  by  a  rifle-ball,  the  trees  regained  their 
straight  position  with  a  snap  like  whips,  and  that 
was  the  way  Gilbert  Gates  came  to  his  end. 

THE   ENVY   OF   MANITOU 

BEHIND  the  mountains  that  gloom  about   the 
romantic  village  of  Mauch  Chunk,  Pennsyl- 
vania, was  once  a  lake  of  clear,   bright  water,   its 
winding  loops  and  bays  extending  back  for  several 
miles.     On  one  of  its  prettiest  bits  of  shore  stood 
a  village  of  the  Leni  Lenape,  and  largest  of  its  wig- 
wams, most  richly  pictured  without,  most  luxurious 
in  its  couching  of  furs  within,  was  that  of  the  young 
1 68 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

chief,  Onoko.  This  Indian  was  a  man  of  great 
size,  strength,  and  daring.  Single-handed  he  had 
slain  the  bear  on  Mauch  Chunk  [Bear  Mountain], 
and  it  was  no  wonder  that  Wenonah,  the  fairest  of 
her  tribe,  was  flattered  when  he  sued  for  her  hand, 
and  promptly  consented  to  be  his  wife.  It  was 
Onoko's  fortune  in  war,  the  chase,  and  love  that 
roused  the  envy  of  Mitche  Manitou. 

One  day,  as  the  couple  were  floating  in  their 
shallop  of  bark  on  the  calm  lake,  idly  enjoying  the 
sunshine  and  saying  pretty  things  to  each  other,  the 
Manitou  arose  among  the  mountains.  Terrible  was 
his  aspect,  for  the  scowl  of  hatred  was  on  his  face, 
thunder  crashed  about  his  head,  and  fire  snapped 
from  his  eyes.  Covering  his  right  hand  with  his 
invincible  magic  mitten,  he  dealt  a  blow  on  the  hills 
that  made  the  earth  shake,  and  rived  them  to  a  depth 
of  a  thousand  feet.  Through  the  chasm  thus  created 
the  lake  poured  a  foaming  deluge,  and  borne  with  it 
was  the  canoe  of  Onoko  and  Wenonah.  One  glance 
r.t  the  wrathful  face  in  the  clouds  above  them  and 
they  knew  that  escape  was  hopeless,  so,  clasping 
each  other  in  a  close  embrace,  they  were  whirled 
away  to  death.  Manitou  strode  away  moodily  among 
the  hills,  and  ever  since  that  time  the  Lehigh  has 
rolled  through  the  chasm  that  he  made.  The  memory 
of  Onoko  is  preserved  in  the  name  of  a  glen  and 
cascade  a  short  distance  above  Mauch  Chunk. 

It  is  not  well  to  be  too  happy  in  this  world.     It 
rouses  the  envy  of  the  gods. 
169 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   LAST   REVEL   IN   PRINTZ   HALL 

"'\7OUNG  man,  I'll  give  thee  five  dollars  a 
J_  week  to  be  care-taker  in  Printz  Hall,"  said 
Quaker  Quidd  to  fiddler  Matthews,  on  an  autumn 
evening. 

Young  Matthews  had  just  been  taunting  the  old 
gentleman  with  being  afraid  to  sleep  on  his  own 
domain,  and  as  the  eyes  of  all  the  tavern  loungers 
were  on  him  he  could  hardly  decline  so  flattering  a 
proposition,  so,  after  some  hemming  and  hawing,  he 
said  he  would  take  the  Quaker  at  his  word.  He 
played  but  two  or  three  more  tunes  that  evening, 
did  Peter  Matthews,  and  played  them  rather  sadly ; 
then,  as  Quidd  had  finished  his  mulled  cider  and 
departed,  he  took  his  homeward  way  in  thoughtful 
mood.  Printz  Hall  stood  in  a  lonely,  weed-grown 
garden  near  Chester,  Pennsylvania,  and  thither  re- 
paired Peter,  as  next  day's  twilight  shut  down,  with 
a  mattress,  blanket,  comestibles,  his  beloved  fiddle, 
and  a  flask  of  whiskey.  Ensconcing  himself  in  the 
room  that  was  least  depressing  in  appearance  he 
stuffed  rags  into  the  vacant  panes,  lighted  a  candle, 
started  a  blaze  in  the  fireplace,  and  ate  his  supper. 

"  Not  so  bad  a  place,  after  all,"  mumbled  Peter, 
as  he  warmed  himself  at  the  fire  and  the  flask ;  then, 
taking  out  his  violin,  he  began  to  play.  The  echo 
of  his  music  emphasized  the  emptiness  of  the  house, 
the  damp  got  into  the  strings  so  that  they  sounded 
tubby,  and  there  were  unintentional  quavers  in  the 
170 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

melody  whenever  the  trees  swung  against  the  win- 
dows and  splashed  them  with  rain,  or  when  a  distant 
shutter  fell  a-creaking.  Finally,  he  stirred  the  fire, 
bolted  the  door,  snuffed  his  candle,  took  a  courageous 
pull  at  the  liquor,  flung  off  his  coat  and  shoes,  rolled 
his  blanket  around  him,  stretched  himself  on  the 
mattress,  and  fell  asleep.  He  was  awakened  by — 
well,  he  could  not  say  what,  exactly,  only  he  became 
suddenly  as  wide  awake  as  ever  he  had  been  in  his 
life,  and  listened  for  some  sound  that  he  knew  was 
going  to  come  out  of  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  the 
slamming,  grating,  and  whistling  about  the  house. 
Yes,  there  it  was :  a  tread  and  a  clank  on  the  stair. 
The  door,  so  tightly  bolted,  flew  open,  and  there 
entered  a  dark  figure  with  steeple-crowned  hat,  cloak, 
jack-boots,  sword,  and  corselet.  The  terrified  fiddler 
wanted  to  howl,  but  his  voice  was  gone.  "  I  am 
Peter  Printz,  governor-general  of  his  Swedish  Maj- 
esty's American  colonies,  and  builder  of  this  house," 
said  the  figure.  "  'Tis  the  night  of  the  autumnal 
equinox,  when  my  friends  meet  here  for  revel.  Take 
thy  fiddle  and  come.  Play,  but  speak  not." 

And  whether  he  wished  or  no,  Peter  was  drawn 
to  follow  the  figure,  which  he  could  make  out  by 
the  phosphor  gleam  of  it.  Down-stairs  they  went, 
doors  swinging  open  before  them,  and  along  cor- 
ridors that  clanged  to  the  stroke  of  the  spectre's 
boot  heels.  Now  they  came  to  the  ancient  recep- 
tion-room, and  as  they  entered  it  Peter  was  dazzled. 
The  floor  was  smooth  with  wax,  logs  snapped  in 
171 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  fireplace,  though  the  flame  was  somewhat  blue, 
the  old  hangings  and  portraits  looked  fresh,  and  in 
the  light  of  wax  candles  a  hundred  people,  in  the 
brave  array  of  old  times,  walked,  courtesied,  and 
seemed  to  laugh  and  talk  together.  As  the  fiddler 
appeared,  every  eye  was  turned  on  him  in  a  dis- 
quieting way,  and  when  he  addressed  himself  to  his 
bottle,  from  every  throat  came  a  hollow  laugh.  Find- 
ing his  way  to  a  chair  he  sank  into  it  and  put  his 
instrument  in  position.  At  the  first  note  the  couples 
took  hands,  and  as  he  struck  into  a  jig  they  began  to 
circle  swiftly,  leaping  wondrous  high. 

Faster  went  the  music,  for  the  whiskey  was  at 
work  in  Peter's  noddle,  and  wilder  grew  the  dance. 
It  was  as  if  the  storm  had  come  in  through  the 
windows  and  was  blowing  these  people  hither  and 
yon,  around  and  around.  The  fiddler  vaguely  won- 
dered at  himself,  for  he  had  never  played  so  well, 
though  he  had  never  heard  the  tune  before.  Now 
loomed  Governor  Printz  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  extending  his  hand  he  ordered  the  dance  to 
cease.  "  Thou  hast  played  well,  fiddler,"  he  said, 
"  and  shalt  be  paid."  Then,  at  his  signal,  came 
two  negro  men  tugging  at  a  strong  box  that  Printz 
unlocked.  It  was  filled  with  gold  pieces.  "  Hold 
thy  fiddle  bag,"  commanded  the  governor,  and  Peter 
did  so,  watching,  open  mouthed,  the  transfer  of  a 
double  handful  of  treasure  from  box  to  sack.  An- 
other such  handful  followed,  and  another.  At  the 
fourth  Peter  could  no  longer  contain  himself.  He 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

forgot  the  injunction  not  to  speak,  and  shouted  glee- 
fully, "  Lord  Harry  !     Here's  luck  !" 

There  was  a  shriek  of  demon  laughter,  the  scene 
was  lost  in  darkness,  and  Peter  fell  insensible.  In 
the  morning  a  tavern-haunting  friend,  anxious  to 
know  if  Peter  had  met  with  any  adventure,  entered 
the  house  and  went  cautiously  from  room  to  room, 
calling  on  the  watcher  to  show  himself.  There 
was  no  response.  At  last  he  stumbled  on  the 
whiskey  bottle,  empty,  and  knew  that  Peter  must 
be  near.  Sure  enough,  there  he  lay  in  the  great 
room,  with  dust  and  mould  thick  on  everything,  and 
his  fiddle  smashed  into  a  thousand  pieces.  Peter  on 
being  awakened  looked  ruefully  about  him,  then 
sprang  up  and  eagerly  demanded  his  money.  "  What 
money  ?"  asked  his  friend.  The  fiddler  clutched  at 
his  green  bag,  opened  it,  shook  it;  there  was  nothing. 
Nor  was  there  any  delay  in  Peter's  exit  from  that 
mansion,  and  when,  twenty-four  hours  after,  the 
house  went  up  in  flames,  he  averred  that  the  ghosts 
had  set  it  afire,  and  that  he  knew  where  they  brought 
their  coals  from. 

THE   TWO   RINGS 

ABRIELLE  DE  ST.  PIERRE,  daughter  of 
the    commandant    of   Fort    Le    Breuf,    now 
Waterford,  Pennsylvania,   that  the   French  had  set 
up  on  the   Ohio  River,  was   Parisian  by  birth  and 
training,  but  American  by  choice,  for  she  had  cn- 
173 


Myths  and  Legends 

joyed  on  this  lonesome  frontier  a  freedom  equal  to 
that  of  the  big-handed,  red-faced  half-breeds,  and 
she  was  as  wild  as  an  Indian  in  her  sports.  Return- 
ing from  a  hunt,  one  day,  she  saw  three  men  advancing 
along  the  trail,  and,  as  it  was  easy  to  see  that  they 
were  not  Frenchmen,  her  guide  slipped  an  arrow  to 
the  cord  and  discharged  it ;  but  Gabrielle  was  as 
quick  as  he,  for  she  struck  the  missile  as  it  was 
leaving  the  bow  and  it  quivered  harmlessly  into  a 
beech.  The  younger  of  the  men  who  were  ad- 
vancing— he  was  Harry  Fairfax,  of  Virginia — said 
to  his  chief,  "  Another  escape  for  you,  George. 
Heaven  sent  one  of  its  angels  to  avert  that  stroke." 

Washington,  for  it  was  he,  answered  lightly,  and, 
as  no  other  hostile  demonstrations  were  made,  the 
new-comers  pressed  on  to  the  fort,  where  St.  Pierre 
received  them  cordially,  though  he  knew  that  their 
errand  was  to  claim  his  land  on  behalf  of  the  English 
and  urge  the  French  to  retire  to  the  southwest.  The 
days  that  were  spent  in  futile  negotiation  passed  all 
too  swiftly  for  Fairfax,  for  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Gabrielle.  She  would  not  consent  to  a  betrothal 
until  time  had  tried  his  affection,  but  as  a  token  of 
friendship  she  gave  him  a  stone  circlet  of  Indian 
manufacture,  and  received  in  exchange  a  ring  that 
had  been  worn  by  the  mother  of  Fairfax. 

After  the  diplomats  had  returned  the  English  re- 
solved to  enforce  their  demand  with  arms,  and  Fair- 
fax was  one  of  the  first  to  be  despatched  to  the  front. 
Early  in  the  campaign  his  company  engaged  the 
174 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

enemy  near  the  Ohio  River,  and  in  the  heat  of 
battle  he  had  time  to  note  and  wonder  at  the  strange 
conduct  of  one  of  the  French  officers,  a  mere  strip- 
ling, who  seemed  more  concerned  to  check  the  fire 
of  his  men  than  to  secure  any  advantage  in  the  fight. 
Presently  the  French  gave  way,  and  with  a  cheer 
the  English  ran  forward  to  claim  the  field,  the  ruder 
spirits  among  them  at  once  beginning  to  plunder  the 
wounded.  A  cry  for  quarter  drew  Fairfax  with  a 
bound  to  the  place  whence  it  came,  and,  dashing 
aside  a  pilfering  soldier,  he  bent  above  a  slight  form 
that  lay  extended  on  the  earth  :  the  young  officer 
whose  strange  conduct  had  so  surprised  him.  In 
another  moment  he  recognized  his  mother's  ring  on 
one  of  the  slender  hands.  It  was  Gabrielle.  Her 
father  had  perished  in  the  fight,  but  she  had  saved 
her  lover. 

In  due  time  she  went  with  her  affianced  to  his 
home  in  Williamsburg,  Virginia,  and  became  mis- 
tress of  the  Fairfax  mansion.  But  she  never  liked 
the  English,  as  a  people,  and  when,  in  later  years, 
two  sturdy  sons  of  hers  asked  leave  to  join  the  Con- 
tinental army,  she  readily  consented. 

FLAME  SCALPS   OF   THE   CHARTIERS 

BEFORE   Pittsburg   had  become  worthy  to  be 
called  a  settlement,  a  white  man  rowed  his 
boat   to   the   mouth   of   Chartiers    creek,  near   that 
present  city.     He  was  seeking  a  place  in  which  to 


Myths  and  Legends 

make  his  home,  and  a  little  way  up-stream,  where 
were  timber,  water,  and  a  southern  slope,  he  marked 
a  "  tomahawk  claim,"  and  set  about  clearing  the 
land.  Next  year  his  wife,  two  children,  and  his 
brother  came  to  occupy  the  cabin  he  had  built,  and 
for  a  long  time  all  went  happily,  but  on  returning 
from  a  long  hunt  the  brothers  found  the  little  house 
in  ashes  and  the  charred  remains  of  its  occupants  in 
the  ruins.  Though  nearly  crazed  by  this  catastrophe 
they  knew  that  their  own  lives  were  in  hourly  peril, 
and  they  wished  to  live  until  they  could  punish  the 
savages  for  this  crime.  After  burying  the  bodies, 
they  started  east  across  the  hills,  leaving  a  letter  on 
birch  bark  in  a  cleft  stick  at  the  mouth  of  Chartiers 
creek,  in  which  the  tragedy  was  recounted. 

This  letter  was  afterward  found  by  trappers. 
The  men  themselves  were  never  heard  from,  and 
it  is  believed  that  they,  too,  fell  at  the  hands  of  the 
Indians.  Old  settlers  used  to  affirm  that  on  summer 
nights  the  cries  of  the  murdered  innocents  could  be 
heard  in  the  little  valley  where  the  cabin  stood,  and 
when  storms  were  coming  up  these  cries  were  often 
blended  with  the  yells  of  savages.  More  impressive 
are  the  death  lights — the  will-o'-the-wisps — that 
wander  over  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  and  up  and 
down  the  neighboring  slopes.  These  apparitions  are 
said  to  be  the  spirits  of  husband  and  wife  seeking  each 
other,  or  going  together  in  search  of  their  children ; 
but  some  declare  that  in  their  upward  streaming  rays 
it  can  readily  be  seen  that  they  are  the  scalps  of  the 
176 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

slain.  Two  of  them  have  a  golden  hue,  and  these 
are  the  scalps  of  the  children.  From  beneath  them 
drops  of  red  seem  to  distil  on  the  grass  and  are 
found  to  have  bedewed  the  flowers  on  the  following 
morning. 

THE  CONSECRATION  OF  WASHINGTON 

IN  1773  some  of  the  Pietist  monks  were  still 
living  in  their  rude  monastery  whose  ruins  are 
visible  on  the  banks  of  the  Wissahickon.  Chief 
among  these  mystics  was  an  old  man  who  might 
have  enjoyed  the  wealth  and  distinction  warranted 
by  a  title  had  he  chosen  to  remain  in  Germany,  but 
he  had  forsworn  vanities,  and  had  come  to  the  new 
world  to  pray,  to  rear  his  children,  and  to  live  a 
simple  life.  Some  said  he  was  an  alchemist,  and 
many  believed  him  to  be  a  prophet.  The  infrequent 
wanderer  beside  the  romantic  river  had  seen  lights 
burning  in  the  window  of  his  cell  and  had  heard 
the  solemn  sound  of  song  and  prayer.  On  a  winter 
night,  when  snow  lay  untrodden  about  the  building 
and  a  sharp  air  stirred  in  the  trees  with  a  sound  like 
harps,  the  old  man  sat  in  a  large  room  of  the  place, 
with  his  son  and  daughter,  waiting.  For  a  prophecy 
had  run  that  on  that  night,  at  the  third  hour  of 
morning,  the  Deliverer  would  present  himself.  In 
a  dream  was  heard  a  voice,  saying,  "  I  will  send  a 
deliverer  to  the  new  world  who  shall  save  my  people 
from  bondage,  as  my  Son  saved  them  from  spiritual 
12  177 


Myths  and  Legends 

death."  The  night  wore  on  in  prayer  and  medita- 
tion, and  the  hours  tolled  heavily  across  the  frozen 
wilderness,  but,  at  the  stroke  of  three,  steps  were 
heard  in  the  snow  and  the  door  swung  open.  The 
man  who  entered  was  of  great  stature,  with  a  calm, 
strong  face,  a  powerful  frame,  and  a  manner  of 
dignity  and  grace. 

"  Friends,  I  have  lost  my  way,"  said  he.  "  Can 
you  direct  me  ?" 

The  old  man  started  up  in  a  kind  of  rapture. 
"  You  have  not  lost  your  way,"  he  cried,  "  but 
found  it.  You  are  called  to  a  great  mission.  Kneel 
at  this  altar  and  receive  it." 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  man  in  surprise  and 
a  doubt  passed  over  his  face.  "  Nay,  I  am  not 
mad,"  urged  the  recluse,  with  a  slight  smile. 
"  Listen  :  to-night,  disturbed  for  the  future  of  your 
country,  and  unable  to  sleep,  you  mounted  horse 
and  rode  into  the  night  air  to  think  on  the  question 
that  cannot  be  kept  out  of  your  mind,  Is  it  lawful 
for  the  subject  to  draw  sword  against  his  king  ? 
The  horse  wandered,  you  knew  and  cared  not 
whither,  until  he  brought  you  here." 

"  How  do  you  know  this  ?"  asked  the  stranger,  in 
amazement. 

"  Be  not  surprised,  but  kneel  while  I  anoint  thee 
deliverer  of  this  land." 

Moved  and  impressed,  the  man  bowed  his  knee 
before  one  of  his  fellows  for  the  first  time  in  his  life. 
The  monk  touched  his  finger  with  oil,  and  laying  it 
178 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

on  the  brow  of  the  stranger  said,  "  Do  you  promise, 
when  the  hour  shall  strike,  to  take  the  sword  in  de- 
fence of  your  country  ?  Do  you  promise,  when  you 
shall  see  your  soldiers  suffer  for  bread  and  fire,  and 
when  the  people  you  have  led  to  victory  shall  bow 
before  you,  to  remember  that  you  are  but  the  min- 
ister of  God  in  the  work  of  a  nation's  freedom  ?" 

With  a  new  light  burning  in  his  eyes,  the  stranger 
bent  his  head. 

"  Then,  in  His  name,  I  consecrate  thee  deliverer 
of  this  gppressed  people.  When  the  time  comes, 
go  forth  to  victory,  for,  as  you  are  faithful,  be  sure 
that  God  will  grant  it.  Wear  no  crown,  but  the 
blessings  and  honor  of  a  free  people,  save  this." 
As  he  finished,  his  daughter,  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
came  forward  and  put  a  wreath  of  laurel  on  the 
brow  of  the  kneeling  man.  "  Rise,"  continued  the 
prophet,  "  and  take  my  hand,  which  I  have  never 
before  offered  to  any  man,  and  accept  my  promise 
to  be  faithful  to  you  and  to  this  country,  even  if  it 
cost  my  life." 

As  he  arose,  the  son  of  the  priest  stepped  to  him 
and  girt  a  sword  upon  his  hip,  and  the  old  man  held 
up  his  hands  in  solemn  benediction.  The  stranger 
laid  his  hand  on  the  book  that  stood  open  on  the 
altar  and  kissed  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  "  I  will 
keep  the  faith,"  said  he.  At  dawn  he  went  his  way 
again,  and  no  one  knew  his  name,  but  when  the  fires 
of  battle  lighted  the  western  world  America  looked 
to  him  for  its  deliverance  from  tyranny.  Years  later 
179 


Myths  and  Legends 

it  was  this  spot  that  he  revisited,  alone,  to  pray,  and 
here  Sir  William  Howe  offered  to  him,  in  the  name 
of  his  king,  the  title  of  regent  of  America.  He  took 
the  parchment  and  ground  it  into  a  rag  in  the  earth 
at  his  feet.  For  this  was  Washington. 

MARION 

BLOOMING  and  maidenly,  though  she  dressed 
in  leather  and  used  a  rifle  like  a  man,  was 
Marion,  grand-daughter  of  old  Abraham,  who 
counted  his  years  as  ninety,  and  who  for  many  of 
those  years  had  lived  with  his  books  in  the  tidy 
cabin  where  the  Youghiogheny  and  Monongahela 
come  together.  This  place  stood  near  the  trail 
along  which  Braddock  marched  to  his  defeat,  and  it 
was  one  of  the  stragglers  from  this  command,  a 
bony  half-breed  with  red  hair,  called  Red  Wolf, 
that  knocked  at  the  door  and  asked  for  water. 
Seeing  no  one  but  Marion  he  ventured  in,  and 
would  have  tried  not  only  to  make  free  with  the 
contents  of  the  little  house  but  would  have  kissed 
the  girl  as  well,  only  that  she  seized  her  rifle  and 
held  him  at  bay.  Still,  the  fellow  would  have 
braved  a  shot,  had  not  a  young  officer  in  a  silver- 
laced  uniform  glanced  through  the  open  door  in 
passing  and  discovered  the  situation.  He  doffed  his 
chapeau  to  Marion,  then  said  sternly  to  the  rogue, 
"  Retire.  Your  men  are  waiting  for  you."  Red 
Wolf  slunk  away,  and  Washington,  for  it  was  he, 
I  to 


On  and  Near  the  Delaware 

begged  that  he  might  rest  for  a  little  time  under  the 
roof. 

This  request  was  gladly  complied  with,  both  by 
the  girl  and  by  her  grandfather,  who  presently  ap- 
peared, and  the  fever  that  threatened  the  young 
soldier  was  averted  by  a  day  of  careful  nursing. 
Marion's  innate  refinement,  her  gentleness,  her 
vivacity,  could  not  fail  to  interest  Washington,  and 
the  vision  of  her  face  was  with  him  for  many  a  day. 
He  promised  to  return,  then  he  rode  forward  and 
caught  up  with  the  troops.  He  survived  the  battle 
in  which  seven  hundred  of  his  comrades  were  shot 
or  tomahawked  and  scalped.  One  Indian  fired  at 
him  eleven  times,  and  five  of  the  bullets  scratched 
him ;  after  that  the  savage  forbore,  believing  that 
the  officer  was  under  Manitou's  protection.  When 
the  retreating  column  approached  the  place  where 
Marion  lived  he  hastened  on  in  advance  to  see  her. 
The  cabin  was  in  ashes.  He  called,  but  there  was 
no  answer.  When  he  turned  away,  with  sad  and 
thoughtful  mien,  a  brown  tress  was  wrapped  around 
his  finger,  and  in  his  cabinet  he  kept  it  until  his 
death,  folded  in  a  paper  marked  "  Marion,  July  1 1, 
I755-" 


181 


Caled  of  puritan  iLana 
¥ 


of  puritan  Hantr 


EVANGELINE 

THE  seizure  by  England  of  the  country  that 
soon  afterward  was  rechristened  Nova  Scotia 
was  one  of  the  cruellest  events  in  history.  The  land 
was  occupied  by  a  good  and  happy  people  who  had 
much  faith  and  few  laws,  plenty  to  eat  and  drink, 
no  tax  collectors  nor  magistrates, — in  brief,  a  people 
who  were  entitled  to  call  themselves  Acadians,  for 
they  made  their  land  an  Arcady.  Upon  them 
swooped  the  British  ships,  took  them  unarmed  and 
unoffending,  crowded  them  aboard  their  transports, 
— often  separating  husband  and  wife,  parents  and 
children, — scattered  them  far  and  wide,  beyond  hope 
of  return,  and  set  up  the  cross  of  St.  George  on  the 
ruins  of  prosperity  and  peace.  On  the  shore  of  the 
Basin  of  Minas  can  still  be  traced  the  foundations 
of  many  homes  that  were  perforce  deserted  at  that 
time,  and  among  them  are  the  ruins  of  Grand  Pre. 

Here  lived  Evangeline  Bellefontaine  and  Gabriel 
Lajeunesse,  who  were  betrothed  with  the  usual 
rejoicings  just  before  the  coming  of  the  English. 
They  had  expected,  when  their  people  were  ar- 
rested, to  be  sent  away  together ;  but  most  of  the 
185 


Myths  and  Legends 

men  were  kept  under  guard,  and  Gabriel  was  at  sea, 
bound  neither  he  nor  she  knew  whither,  when 
Evangeline  found  herself  in  her  father's  house  alone, 
for  grief  and  excitement  had  been  more  than  her 
aged  parent  could  bear,  and  he  was  buried  at  the 
shore  just  before  the  women  of  the  place  were 
crowded  on  board  of  a  transport.  As  the  ship  set 
off  her  sorrowing  passengers  looked  behind  them  to 
see  their  homes  going  up  in  flame  and  smoke,  and 
Acadia  knew  them  no  more.  The  English  had 
planned  well  to  keep  these  people  from  coming 
together  for  conspiracy  or  revenge :  they  scattered 
them  over  all  America,  from  Newfoundland  to  the 
southern  savannas. 

Evangeline  was  not  taken  far  away,  only  to  New 
England ;  but  without  Gabriel  all  lands  were  drear, 
and  she  set  off  in  the  search  for  him,  working  here 
and  there,  sometimes  looking  timidly  at  the  head- 
stones on  new  graves,  then  travelling  on.  Once  she 
heard  that  he  was  a  coureur  des  hois  on  the  prairies, 
again  that  he  was  a  voyageur  in  the  Louisiana  low- 
lands ;  but  those  of  his  people  who  kept  near  her 
inclined  to  jest  at  her  faith  and  urged  her  to  marry 
Leblanc,  the  notary's  son,  who  truly  loved  her.  To 
these  she  only  replied,  "  I  cannot." 

Down  the  Ohio  and  Mississippi  she  went — on  a 
raft — with  a  little  band  of  those  who  were  seeking 
the  French  settlements,  where  the  language,  religion, 
and  simplicity  of  life  recalled  Acadia.  They  found 
it  on  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  and  they  reached  the 
186 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

house  of  the  herdsman  Gabriel  on  the  day  that  he 
had  departed  for  the  north  to  seek  Evangeline.  She 
and  the  good  priest  who  had  been  her  stay  in  a  year 
of  sorrow  turned  back  in  pursuit,  and  for  weary 
months,  over  prairie  and  through  forest,  skirting 
mountain  and  morass,  going  freely  among  savages, 
they  followed  vain  clues,  and  at  last  arrived  in  Phil- 
adelphia. Broken  in  spirit  then,  but  not  less  sweet 
of  nature  for  the  suffering  that  she  had  known,  she 
who  had  been  named  for  the  angels  became  a  min- 
ister of  mercy,  and  in  the  black  robe  of  a  nun  went 
about  with  comforts  to  the  sick  and  poor.  A  pesti- 
lence was  sweeping  through  the  city,  and  those  who 
had  no  friends  nor  attendants  were  taken  to  the 
almshouse,  whither,  as  her  way  was,  Evangeline 
went  on  a  soft  Sabbath  morning  to  calm  the  fevered 
and  brighten  the  hearts  of  the  dying. 

Some  of  the  patients  of  the  day  before  had  gone 
and  new  were  in  their  places.  Suddenly  she  turned 
white  and  sank  on  her  knees  at  a  bedside,  with  a  cry 
of  "  Gabriel,  my  beloved !"  breathed  into  the  ears 
of  a  prematurely  aged  man  who  lay  gasping  in  death 
before  her.  He  came  out  of  his  stupor,  slowly, 
and  tried  to  speak  her  name.  She  drew  his  head  to 
her  bosom,  kissed  him,  and  for  one  moment  they 
were  happy.  Then  the  light  went  out  of  his  eyes 
and  the  warmth  from  his  heart.  She  pressed  his 
eyelids  down  and  bowed  her  head,  for  her  way  was 
plainer  now,  and  she  thanked  God  that  it  was  so. 


187 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE  SNORING   OF   SWUNKSUS 

THE  original  proprietor  of  Deer  Isle,  off  the 
coast  of  Maine — at  least,  the  one  who  was 
in  possession  one  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago — had 
the  liquid  name  of  Swunksus.  His  name  was  not 
the  only  liquid  thing  in  the  neighborhood,  however, 
for,  wherever  Swunksus  was,  fire-water  was  not  far. 
Shortly  before  the  Revolution  a  renegade  from  Bos- 
ton, one  Conary,  moved  up  to  the  island  and  helped 
himself  to  as  much  of  it  as  he  chose,  but  the  longer 
he  lived  there  the  more  he  wanted.  Swunksus  was 
willing  enough  to  divide  his  domain  with  the  white 
intruder,  but  Conary  was  not  satisfied  with  half. 
He  did  not  need  it  all ;  he  just  wanted  it.  More- 
over, he  grew  quarrelsome  and  was  continually 
nagging  poor  Swunksus,  until  at  last  he  forced  the 
Indian  to  accept  a  challenge,  not  to  immediate  com- 
bat, but  to  fight  to  the  death  should  they  meet  there- 
after. 

The  red  man  retired  to  his  half  of  the  island  and 
hid  among  the  bushes  near  his  home  to  await  the 
white  man,  but  in  this  little  fastness  he  discovered  a 
jug  of  whiskey  that  either  fate  or  Conary  had 
placed  there.  Before  an  hour  was  over  he  was 
"  as  full  and  mellow  as  a  harvest  moon,"  and  it  was 
then  that  his  enemy  appeared.  There  was  no 
trouble  in  finding  Swunksus,  for  he  was  snoring  like 
a  fog  horn,  and  walking  boldly  up  to  him,  Conary 
blew  his  head  off  with  a  load  of  slugs.  Then  he 
188 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

took  possession  of  the  place  and  lived  happily  ever 
after.  Swunksus  takes  his  deposition  easily,  for, 
although  he  has  more  than  once  paraded  along  the 
beaches,  his  ghost  spends  most  of  the  time  in  slum- 
ber, and  terrific  snores  have  been  heard  proceeding 
from  the  woods  in  daylight. 

THE   LEWISTON   HERMIT 

ON  an  island  above  the  falls  of  the  Androscog- 
gin,  at  Lewiston,  Maine,  lived  a  white  recluse 
at  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  The 
natives,  having  had  good  reason  to  mistrust  all  pale- 
faces, could  think  no  good  of  the  man  who  lived 
thus  among  but  not  with  them.  Often  they  gath- 
ered at  the  bank  and  looked  across  at  his  solitary 
candle  twinkling  among  the  leaves,  and  wondered 
what  manner  of  evil  he  could  be  planning  against 
them.  Wherever  there  are  many  conspirators  one 
will  be  a  gabbler  or  a  traitor ;  so,  when  the  natives 
had  resolved  on  his  murder,  he,  somehow,  learned 
of  their  intent  and  set  himself  to  thwart  it.  So  great 
was  their  fear  of  this  lonely  man,  and  of  the  malig- 
nant powers  he  might  conjure  to  his  aid,  that  nearly 
fifty  Indians  joined  the  expedition,  to  give  each  other 
courage. 

Their  plan  was  to  go  a  little  distance  up  the  river 

and  come  down  with  the  current,  thus  avoiding  the 

dip  of  paddles  that  he  might  hear  in  a  direct  crossing. 

When  it  was  quite  dark  they  set  off,  and  keeping 

189 


Myths  and  Legends 

headway  on  their  canoes  aimed  them  toward  the 
light  that  glimmered  above  the  water.  But  the  cun- 
ning hermit  had  no  fire  in  his  cabin  that  ni-ght.  It 
was  burning  on  a  point  below  his  shelter,  and  from 
his  hiding-place  among  the  rocks  he  saw  their  fleet, 
as  dim  and  silent  as  shadows,  go  by  him  on  the  way 
to  the  misguiding  beacon. 

Presently  a  cry  arose.  The  savages  had  passed 
the  point  of  safe  sailing ;  their  boats  had  become 
unmanageable.  Forgetting  their  errand,  their  only 
hope  now  was  to  save  themselves,  but  in  vain  they 
tried  to  reach  the  shore :  the  current  was  whirling 
them  to  their  doom.  Cries  and  death-songs  mingled 
with  the  deepening  roar  of  the  waters,  the  light 
barks  reached  the  cataract  and  leaped  into  the  air. 
Then  the  night  was  still  again,  save  for  the  booming 
of  the  flood.  Not  one  of  the  Indians  who  had  set 
out  on  this  errand  of  death  survived  the  hermit's 
stratagem. 

THE   DEAD   SHIP  OF   HARPSWELL 

AT  times  the  fisher-folk  of  Maine  are  startled 
to  see  the  form  of  a  ship,  with  gaunt  timbers 
showing  through  the  planks,  like  lean  limbs  through 
rents    in   a  pauper's    garb,  float  shoreward    in   the 
sunset.     She  is   a   ship  of   ancient  build,  with  tall 
masts  and  sails  of  majestic  spread,  all  torn ;  but  what 
is  her  name,  her  port,  her  flag,  what  harbor  she  is 
trying  to  make,  no  man  can  tell,  for  on  her  deck  no 
190 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

sailor  has  ever  been  seen  to  run  up  colors  or  heard 
to  answer  a  hail.  Be  it  in  calm  or  storm,  in-come  or 
ebb  of  tide,  the  ship  holds  her  way  until  she  almost 
touches  shore. 

There  is  no  creak  of  spars  or  whine  of  cordage, 
no  spray  at  the  bow,  no  ripple  at  the  stern — no 
voice,  and  no  figure  to  utter  one.  As  she  nears  the 
rocks  she  pauses,  then,  as  if  impelled  by  a  contrary 
current,  floats  rudder  foremost  off  to  sea,  and  vanishes 
in  twilight.  Harpswell  is  her  favorite  cruising- 
ground,  and  her  appearance  there  sets  many  heads 
to  shaking,  for  while  it  is  not  inevitable  that  ill  luck 
follows  her  visits,  it  has  been  seen  that  burial-boats 
have  sometimes  had  occasion  to  cross  the  harbor 
soon  after  them,  and  that  they  were  obliged  by  wind 
or  tide  or  current  to  follow  her  course  on  leaving 
the  wharf. 

THE     SCHOOLMASTER     HAD     NOT 
REACHED    ORRINGTON. 

THE  quiet  town  of  Orrington,  in  Maine,  was 
founded    by   Jesse    Atwood,    of    Wellfleet, 
Cape  Cod,  in   1778,  and  has  become  known,  since 
then,  as    a  place  where   skilful   farmers   and  brave 
sailors  could  always  be  found.      It  also  kept  Maine 
supplied   for   years   with   oldest   inhabitants.     It   is 
said  that  the  name  was  an  accident  of  illiteracy,  and 
that  it  is  the  only  place  in  the  world  that  owes  its 
title  to  bad   spelling.     The  settlers   who  followed 
191 


Myths  and  Legends 

Atwood  there  were  numerous  enough  to  form  a 
township  after  ten  years,  and  the  name  they  decided 
on  for  their  commonwealth  was  Orangetown,  so 
called  for  a  village  in  Maryland  where  some  of  the 
people  had  associations,  but  the  clerk  of  the  town- 
meeting  was  not  a  college  graduate  and  his  spelling 
of  Orange  was  Orring,  and  of  town,  ton.  His 
draft  of  the  resolutions  went  before  the  legislature, 
and  the  people  directly  afterward  found  themselves 
living  in  Orrington. 

JACK   WELCH'S   DEATH   LIGHT 

T)OND  COVE,  Maine,  is  haunted  by  a  light  that 
_L  on  a  certain  evening,  every  summer,  rises  a  mile 
out  at  sea,  drifts  to  a  spot  on  shore,  then  whirls  with  a 
buzz  and  a  glare  to  an  old  house,  where  it  vanishes.  Its 
first  appearance  was  simultaneous  with  the  departure 
of  Jack  Welch,  a  fisherman.  He  was  seen  one  even- 
ing at  work  on  his  boat,  but  in  the  morning  he  was 
gone,  nor  has  he  since  shown  himself  in  the  flesh. 

On  the  tenth  anniversary  of  this  event  three  fisher- 
men were  hurrying  up  the  bay,  hoping  to  reach  home 
before  dark,  for  they  dreaded  that  uncanny  light,  but 
a  fog  came  in  and  it  was  late  before  they  reached  the 
wharf.  As  they  were  tying  their  boat  a  channel 
seemed  to  open  through  the  mist,  and  along  that 
path  from  the  deep  came  a  ball  of  pallid  flame  with 
the  rush  of  a  meteor.  There  was  one  of  the  men 
who  cowered  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  ashen 

I9Z 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

face  and  shaking  limbs,  and  did  not  watch  the  light, 
even  though  it  shot  above  his  head,  played  through 
the  rigging,  and  after  a  wide  sweep  went  shoreward 
and  settled  on  his  house.  Next  day  one  of  his  com- 
rades called  for  him,  but  Tom  Wright  was  gone, — 
gone,  his  wife  said,  before  the  day  broke.  Like 
Jack  Welch's  disappearance,  this  departure  was  un- 
explained, and  in  time  he  was  given  up  for  dead. 

Twenty  years  had  passed,  when  Wright's  pre- 
sumptive widow  was  startled  by  the  receipt  of  a  letter 
in  a  weak,  trembling  hand,  signed  with  her  husband's 
name.  It  was  written  on  his  death-bed,  in  a  distant 
place,  and  held  a  confession.  Before  their  marriage, 
Jack  Welch  had  been  a  suitor  for  her  hand,  and  had 
been  the  favored  of  the  two.  To  remove  his  rival 
and  prosper  in  his  place,  Wright  stole  upon  the  other 
at  his  work,  killed  him,  took  his  body  to  sea,  and 
threw  it  overboard.  Since  that  time  the  dead  man 
had  pursued  him,  and  he  was  glad  that  the  end  of  his 
days  was  come.  But,  though  Tom  Wright  is  no 
more,  his  victim's  light  comes  yearly  from  the  sea, 
above  the  spot  where  his  body  sank,  floats  to  the 
scene  of  the  murder  on  the  shore,  then  flits  to  the 
house  where  the  assassin  lived  and  for  years  simulated 
the  content  that  comes  of  wedded  life. 


13  193 


Myths  and  Legends 

MOGG    MEGONE 

HAPLESS  daughter  of  a  renegade  is  Ruth 
Bonython.  Her  father  is  as  unfair  to  his 
friends  as  to  his  enemies,  but  to  neither  of  them  so 
merciless  as  to  Ruth.  Although  he  knows  that  she 
loves  Master  Scammon — in  spite  of  his  desertion — 
and  would  rather  die  than  wed  another,  he  has 
promised  her  to  Mogg  Megone,  the  chief  who  rules 
the  Indians  at  the  Saco  mouth.  He,  blundering 
savage,  fancies  that  he  sees  to  the  bottom  of  her 
grief,  and  one  day,  while  urging  his  suit,  he  opens 
his  blanket  and  shows  the  scalp  of  Scammon,  to 
prove  that  he  has  avenged  her.  She  looks  in  horror, 
but  when  he  flings  the  bloody  trophy  at  her  feet  she 
baptizes  it  with  a  forgiving  tear.  What  villany 
may  this  lead  to  ?  Ah,  none  for  him,  for  Bonython 
now  steps  in  and  plies  him  with  flattery  and  drink, 
gaining  from  the  chief,  at  last,  his  signature — the 
bow  totem — to  a  transfer  of  the  land  for  which  he 
is  willing  to  sell  his  daughter.  Ruth,  maddened  at 
her  father's  meanness  and  the  Indian's  brutality, 
rushes  on  the  imbruted  savage,  grasps  from  his  belt 
the  knife  that  has  slain  her  lover,  cleaves  his  heart 
in  twain,  and  flies  into  the  wood,  leaving  Bonython 
stupid  with  amazement. 

Father  Rasles,  in  his  chapel  at  Norridgewock,  is 

affecting  his   Indian   converts   against  the   Puritans, 

who   settled   to   the   southward  of   him   fifty  years 

before.     To   him  comes  a  woman  with  torn  gar- 

194 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

ments  and  frightened  face.  Her  dead  mother  stood 
before  her  last  night,  she  says,  and  looked  at  her 
reprovingly,  for  she  had  killed  Mogg  Megone.  The 
priest  starts  back  in  wrath,  for  Mogg  was  a  hopeful 
agent  of  the  faith,  and  bids  her  go,  for  she  can  ask 
no  pardon.  Brooding  within  his  chapel,  then,  he 
is  startled  by  the  sound  of  shot  and  hum  of  arrows. 
Harmon  and  Moulton  are  advancing  with  their  men 
and  crying,  "  Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  !  Death 
to  the  Babylonish  dog !"  Ruth,  knowing  not  what 
this  new  misfortune  may  mean,  runs  from  the  church 
and  disappears. 

Some  days  later,  old  Baron  Castine,  going  to 
Norridgewock  to  bury  and  revenge  the  dead,  finds 
a  woman  seated  on  the  earth  and  gazing  over  a  field 
strewn  with  ashes  and  with  human  bones.  He 
touches  her.  She  is  cold.  There  has  been  no  life 
for  days.  It  is  Ruth. 

THE   LADY   URSULA 

IN  1690  a  stately  house  stood  in  Kittery,  Maine, 
a  strongly  guarded  place  with  moat  and  draw- 
bridge (which  was  raised  at  night)  and  a  moated 
grange  adjacent  where  were  cattle,  sheep,  and 
horses.  Here,  in  lonely  dignity,  lived  Lady  Ur- 
sula, daughter  of  the  lord  of  Grondale  Abbey,  across 
the  water,  whose  distant  grandeurs  were  in  some 
sort  reflected  in  this  manor  of  the  wilderness.  Sil- 
ver, mahogany,  paintings,  tapestries,  waxed  floors, 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  carven  chests  of  linen  represented  wealth ; 
prayers  were  said  by  a  chaplain  every  morning  and 
evening  in  the  chapel,  and,  though  the  main  hall 
would  accommodate  five  hundred  people,  the  lady 
usually  sat  at  meat  there  with  her  thirty  servants, 
her  part  of  the  table  being  raised  two  feet  above 
theirs. 

It  was  her  happiness  to  believe  that  Captain 
Fowler,  now  absent  in  conflict  with  the  French, 
would  return  and  wed  her  according  to  his  promise, 
but  one  day  came  a  tattered  messenger  with  bitter 
news  of  the  captain's  death.  She  made  no  talk  of 
her  grief,  and,  while  her  face  was  pale  and  step  no 
longer  light,  she  continued  in  the  work  that  custom 
exacted  from  women  of  that  time :  help  for  the 
sick,  alms  for  the  poor,  teaching  for  the  ignorant, 
religion  for  the  savage.  Great  was  her  joy,  then, 
when  a  ship  came  from  England  bringing  a  letter 
from  Captain  Fowler  himself,  refuting  the  rumor  of 
defeat  and  telling  of  his  coming.  Now  the  hall  took 
on  new  life,  reflecting  the  pleasure  of  its  mistress ; 
color  came  back  to  her  cheek  and  sparkle  to  her  eye, 
and  she  could  only  control  her  impatience  by  more 
active  work  and  more  aggressive  charities.  The  day 
was  near  at  hand  for  the  arrival  of  her  lover,  when 
Ursula  and  her  servants  were  set  upon  by  Indians, 
while  away  from  the  protection  of  the  manor,  and 
slain.  They  were  buried  where  they  fell,  and 
Captain  Fowler  found  none  to  whom  his  love  or 
sorrow  could  be  told. 

196 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

FATHER    MOODY'S   BLACK   VEIL 

IN  1770  the  Reverend  Joseph  Moody  died  at 
York,  Maine,  where  he  had  long  held  the  pas- 
torate of  a  church,  and  where  in  his  later  years  his 
face  was  never  seen  by  friend  or  relative.  At  home, 
when  any  one  was  by,  on  the  street,  and  in  the 
pulpit  his  visage  was  concealed  by  a  double  fold  of 
crape  that  was  knotted  above  his  forehead  and  fell 
to  his  chin,  the  lower  edge  of  it  being  shaken  by 
his  breath.  When  first  he  presented  himself  to  his 
congregation  with  features  masked  in  black,  great 
was  the  wonder  and  long  the  talk  about  it.  Was  he 
demented  ?  His  sermons  were  too  logical  for  that. 
Had  he  been  crossed  in  love  ?  He  could  smile, 
though  the  smile  was  sad.  Had  he  been  scarred 
by  accident  or  illness  ?  If  so,  no  physician  knew 
of  it. 

After  a  time  it  was  given  out  that  his  eyes  were 
weakened  by  reading  and  writing  at  night,  and  the 
wonder  ceased,  though  the  veiled  parson  was  less  in 
demand  for  weddings,  christenings,  and  social  gather- 
ings, and  more  besought  for  funerals  than  he  had 
been.  If  asked  to  take  off  his  crape  he  only  re- 
plied, "  We  all  wear  veils  of  one  kind  or  another, 
and  the  heaviest  and  darkest  are  those  that  hang 
about  our  hearts.  This  is  but  a  material  veil.  Let 
it  stay  until  the  hour  strikes  when  all  faces  shall  be 
seen  and  all  souls  reveal  their  secrets." 

Little  by  little  the  clergyman  felt  himself  enforced 
197 


Myths  and  Legends 

to  withdraw  from  the  public  gaze.  There  were 
rough  people  who  were  impertinent  and  timid  people 
who  turned  out  of  their  road  to  avoid  him,  so  that 
he  found  his  out-door  walks  and  meditations  almost 
confined  to  the  night,  unless  he  chose  the  grave-yard 
for  its  seclusion  or  strolled  on  the  beach  and  listened 
to  the  wallowing  and  grunting  of  the  Black  Boars — 
the  rocks  off  shore  that  had  laughed  on  the  night 
when  the  York  witch  went  up  the  chimney  in  a 
gale.  But  his  life  was  long  and  kind  and  useful,  and 
when  at  last  the  veiled  head  lay  on  the  pillow  it  was 
never  to  rise  from  consciously,  a  fellow-clergyman 
came  to  soothe  his  dying  moments  and  commend 
his  soul  to  mercy. 

To  him,  one  evening,  Father  Moody  said, 
"  Brother,  my  hour  is  come  and  the  veil  of  eternal 
darkness  is  falling  over  my  eyes.  Men  have  asked 
me  why  I  wear  this  piece  of  crape  about  my  face, 
as  if  it  were  not  for  them  a  reminder  and  a  symbol, 
and  I  have  borne  the  reason  so  long  within  me 
that  only  now  have  I  resolved  to  tell  it.  Do  you 
recall  the  finding  of  young  Clark  beside  the  river, 
years  ago  ?  He  had  been  shot  through  the  head. 
The  man  who  killed  him  did  so  by  accident,  for  he 
was  a  bosom  friend ;  yet  he  could  never  bring  him- 
self to  confess  the  fact,  for  he  dreaded  the  blame  of 
his  townsmen,  the  anguish  of  the  dead  man's  parents, 
the  hate  of  his  betrothed.  It  was  believed  that  the 
killing  was  a  murder,  and  that  some  roving  Indian 
had  done  it.  After  years  of  conscience-darkened 
198 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

life,  in  which  the  face  of  his  dead  friend  often  arose 
accusingly  before  him,  the  unhappy  wretch  vowed 
that  he  would  never  again  look  his  fellows  openly 
in  the  face :  he  would  pay  a  penalty  and  conceal  his 
shame.  Then  it  was  that  I  put  a  veil  between  my- 
self and  the  world." 

Joseph  Moody  passed  away  and,  as  he  wished, 
the  veil  still  hid  his  face  in  the  coffin,  but  the  clergy- 
man who  had  raised  it  for  a  moment  to  compose  his 
features,  found  there  a  serenity  and  a  beauty  that 
were  majestic. 

THE   HOME   OF   THUNDER 

SOME  Indians  believe  that  the  Thunder  Bird  is 
the  agent  of  storm ;  that  the  flashes  of  his 
eyes  cause  lightning  and  the  flapping  of  his  cloud- 
vast  wings  make  thunder.  Not  so  the  Passama- 
quoddies,  for  they  hold  that  Katahdin's  spirit  chil- 
dren are  Thunders,  and  in  this  way  an  Indian  found 
them  :  He  had  been  seeking  game  along  the  Penob- 
scot  and  for  weeks  had  not  met  one  of  his  fellow 
creatures.  On  a  winter  day  he  came  on  the  print 
of  a  pair  of  snow-shoes ;  next  morning  the  tracks 
appeared  in  another  part  of  the  forest,  and  so  for 
many  days  he  found  them. 

After  a  time  it  occurred  to  him  to  see  where  these 

tracks  went  to,  and  he  followed   them  until  they 

merged  with  others  in  a  travelled  road,  ending  at  a 

precipice  on  the  side  of  Katahdin  (Great  Mountain). 

199 


Myths  and  Legends 

While  lost  in  wonder  that  so  many  tracks  should 
lead  nowhere,  he  was  roused  by  a  footfall,  and  a 
maiden  stepped  from  the  precipice  to  the  ledge 
beside  him.  Though  he  said  nothing,  being  in 
awe  of  her  stateliness  and  beauty,  she  replied  in 
kind  words  to  every  unspoken  thought  and  bade  him 
go  with  her.  He  approached  the  rock  with  fear, 
but  at  a  touch  from  the  woman  it  became  as  mist, 
and  they  entered  it  together. 

Presently  they  were  in  a  great  cave  in  the  heart 
of  Katahdin,  where  sat  the  spirit  of  the  mountain, 
who  welcomed  them  and  asked  the  girl  if  her 
brothers  had  come.  "  I  hear  them  coming,"  she 
replied.  A  blinding  flash,  a  roar  of  thunder,  and 
there  stepped  into  the  cave  two  men  of  giant  size 
and  gravely  beautiful  faces,  hardened  at  the  cheeks 
and  brows  to  stone.  "  These,"  said  the  girl  to  the 
hunter,  "  are  my  brothers,  the  Thunder  and  the 
Lightning.  My  father  sends  them  forth  whenever 
there  is  wrong  to  redress,  that  those  who  love  us 
may  not  be  smitten.  When  you  hear  Thunder, 
know  that  they  are  shooting  at  our  enemies." 

At  the  end  of  that  day  the  hunter  returned  to  his 
home,  and  behold,  he  had  been  gone  seven  years. 
Another  legend  says  that  the  stone-faced  sons  of  the 
mountain  adopted  him,  and  that  for  seven  years  he 
was  a  roaming  Thunder,  but  at  the  end  of  that  time 
while  a  storm  was  raging  he  was  allowed  to  fall, 
unharmed,  into  his  own  village. 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

THE   PARTRIDGE   WITCH 

TWO  brothers,  having  hunted  at  the  head  of  the 
Penobscot  until  their  snow-shoes  and  mocca- 
sins gave  out,  looked  at  each  other  ruefully  and  cried, 
"  Would  that  there  was  a  woman  to  help  us  !"  The 
younger  brother  went  to  the  lodge  that  evening 
earlier  than  the  elder,  in  order  to  prepare  the 
supper,  and  great  was  his  surprise  on  entering  the 
wigwam  to  find  the  floor  swept,  a  fire  built,  a  pot 
boiling,  and  their  clothing  mended.  Returning  to 
the  wood  he  watched  the  place  from  a  covert  until 
he  saw  a  graceful  girl  enter  the  lodge  and  take  up  the 
tasks  of  housekeeping. 

When  he  entered  she  was  confused,  but  he  treated 
her  with  respect,  and  allowed  her  to  have  her  own 
way  so  far  as  possible,  so  that  they  became  warm 
friends,  sporting  together  like  children  when  the 
work  of  the  day  was  over.  But  one  evening  she 
said,  "  Your  brother  is  coming.  I  fear  him.  Fare- 
well." And  she  slipped  into  the  wood.  When  the 
young  man  told  his  elder  brother  what  had  happened 
there — the  elder  having  been  detained  for  a  few  days 
in  the  pursuit  of  a  deer — he  declared  that  he  would 
wish  the  woman  to  come  back,  and  presently,  with- 
out any  summons,  she  returned,  bringing  a  toboggan- 
load  of  garments  and  arms.  The  luck  of  the  hun- 
ters improved,  and  they  remained  happily  together 
until  spring,  when  it  was  time  to  return  with  their 
furs. 


Myths  and  Legends 

They  set  off  down  the  Penobscot  in  their  canoe 
and  rowed  merrily  along,  but  as  they  neared  the 
home  village  the  girl  became  uneasy,  and  presently 
"  threw  out  her  soul" — became  clairvoyant — and 
said,  "  Let  me  land  here.  I  find  that  your  father 
would  not  like  me,  so  do  not  speak  to  him  about 
me."  But  the  elder  brother  told  of  her  when  they 
reached  home,  whereon  the  father  exclaimed,  "  I 
had  feared  this.  That  woman  is  a  sister  of  the 
goblins.  She  wishes  to  destroy  men." 

At  this  the  elder  brother  was  afraid,  lest  she 
should  cast  a  spell  on  him,  and  rowing  up  the  river 
for  a  distance  he  came  upon  her  as  she  was  bathing 
and  shot  at  her.  The  arrow  seemed  to  strike,  for 
there  was  a  flutter  of  feathers  and  the  woman  flew 
away  as  a  partridge.  But  the  younger  did  not  forget 
the  good  she  had  done  and  sought  her  in  the  wood, 
where  for  many  days  they  played  together  as  of  old. 
"  I  do  not  blame  your  father  :  it  is  an  affair  of  old, 
this  hate  he  bears  me,"  she  said.  "  He  will  choose 
a  wife  for  you  soon,  but  do  not  marry  her,  else  all 
will  come  to  an  end  for  you."  The  man  could  not 
wed  the  witch,  and  he  might  not  disobey  his  father, 
in  spite  of  this  adjuration ;  so  when  the  old  man 
said  to  him,  "  I  have  a  wife  for  you,  my  son,"  he 
answered,  "  It  is  well." 

They  brought  the  bride  to  the  village,  and  for  four 
days  the  wedding-dance  was  held,  with  a  feast  that 
lasted  four  days  more.  Then  said  the  young  man, 
"  Now  comes  the  end,"  and  lying  down  on  a  bear- 

202 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

skin  he  sighed  a  few  times  and  his  spirit  ascended 
to  the  Ghosts'  road — the  milky  way.  The  father 
shook  his  head,  for  he  knew  that  this  was  the  witch's 
work,  and,  liking  the  place  no  longer,  he  went  away 
and  the  tribe  was  scattered. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  MOUNT  KATAHDIN 

AN  Indian  girl  gathering  berries  on  the  side  of 
Mount  Katahdin  looked  up  at  its  peak,  rosy 
in  the  afternoon  light,  and  sighed,  "  I  wish  that  I 
had  a  husband.  If  Katahdin  were  a  man  he  might 
marry  me."  Her  companions  laughed  at  this  quaint 
conceit,  and,  filled  with  confusion  at  being  over- 
heard, she  climbed  higher  up  the  slope  and  was  lost 
to  sight.  For  three  years  her  tribe  lost  sight  of 
her ;  then  she  came  back  with  a  child  in  her  arms  : 
a  beautiful  boy  with  brows  of  stone.  The  boy 
had  wonderful  power :  he  had  only  to  point  at  a 
moose  or  a  duck  or  a  bear,  and  it  fell  dead,  so  that 
the  tribe  never  wanted  food.  For  he  was  the  son 
of  the  Indian  girl  and  the  spirit  of  the  mountain, 
who  had  commanded  her  not  to  reveal  the  boy's 
paternity.  Through  years  she  held  silence  on  this 
point,  holding  in  contempt,  like  other  Indians,  the 
prying  inquiries  of  gossips  and  the  teasing  of  young 
people,  and  knowing  that  Katahdin  had  designed  the 
child  for  the  founder  of  a  mighty  race,  with  the 
sinews  of  the  very  mountains  in  its  frame,  that  should 
fill  and  rule  the  earth.  Yet,  one  day,  in  anger  at 
203 


Myths  and  Legends 

some  slight,  the  mother  spoke  :  "  Fools  !  Wasps 
who  sting  the  fingers  that  pick  you  from  the  water ! 
Why  do  you  torment  me  about  what  you  might  all 
see  ?  Look  at  the  boy's  face — his  brows  :  in  them 
do  you  not  see  Katahdin  ?  Now  you  have  brought 
the  curse  upon  yourselves,  for  you  shall  hunt  your 
own  venison  from  this  time  forth."  Leading  the 
child  by  the  hand  she  turned  toward  the  mountain 
and  went  out  from  their  sight.  And  since  then  the 
Indians  who  could  not  hold  their  tongues,  and  who 
might  otherwise  have  been  great,  have  dwindled  to 
a  little  people. 

THE   MOOSE   OF   MOUNT   KINEO 

EASTERN  traditions  concerning  Hiawatha  differ 
in  many  respects  from  those  of  the  West.  In 
the  East  he  is  known  as  Glooskap,  god  of  the  Passa- 
maquoddies,  and  his  marks  are  left  in  many  places  in 
the  maritime  provinces  and  Maine.  It  was  he  who 
gave  names  to  things,  created  men,  filled  them  with 
life,  and  moved  their  wonder  with  storms.  He  lived 
on  the  rocky  height  of  Blomidon,  at  the  entrance  to 
Minas  Basin,  Nova  Scotia,  and  the  agates  to  be  found 
along  its  foot  are  jewels  that  he  made  for  his  grand- 
mother's necklace,  when  he  restored  her  youth.  He 
threw  up  a  ridge  between  Fort  Cumberland  and 
Parrsboro,  Nova  Scotia,  that  he  might  cross,  dry 
shod,  the  lake  made  by  the  beavers  when  they 
dammed  the  strait  at  Blomidon,  but  he  afterward 
204 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

killed  the  beavers,  and  breaking  down  their  dam  he 
let  the  lake  flow  into  the  sea,  and  went  southward 
on  a  hunting  tour.  At  Mount  Desert  he  killed  a 
moose,  whose  bones  he  flung  to  the  ground  at  Bar 
Harbor,  where  they  are  still  to  be  seen,  turned  to 
stone,  while  across  the  bay  he  threw  the  entrails, 
and  they,  too,  are  visible  as  rocks,  dented  with  his 
arrow-points.  Mount  Kineo  was  anciently  a  cow 
moose  of  colossal  size  that  he  slew  and  turned  into  a 
height  of  land,  and  the  Indians  trace  the  outline  of 
the  creature  in  the  uplift  to  this  day.  Little  Kineo 
was  a  calf  moose  that  he  slew  at  the  same  time,  and 
Kettle  Mountain  is  his  camp-caldron  that  he  flung 
to  the  ground  in  the  ardor  of  the  chase. 

THE    OWL   TREE 

ONE  day  in  October,  1827,  Rev.  Charles  Sharply 
rode  into  Alfred,  Maine,  and  held  service  in 
the  meeting-house.  After  the  sermon  he  announced 
that  he  was  going  to  Waterborough  to  preach,  and 
that  on  his  circuit  he  had  collected  two  hundred  and 
seventy  dollars  to  help  build  a  church  in  that  village. 
Would  not  his  hearers  add  to  that  sum?  They 
would  and  did,  and  that  evening  the  parson  rode 
away  with  over  three  hundred  dollars  in  his  saddle- 
bags. He  never  appeared  in  Waterborough.  Some 
of  the  country  people  gave  tongue  to  their  fear 
that  the  possession  of  the  money  had  made  him  for- 
get his  sacred  calling  and  that  he  had  fled  the  State. 
205 


Myths  and  Legends 

On  the  morning  after  his  disappearance,  however, 
Deacon  Dickerman  appeared  in  Alfred  riding  on  a 
horse  that  was  declared  to  be  the  minister's,  until 
the  tavern  hostler  affirmed  that  the  minister's  horse 
had  a  white  star  on  forehead  and  breast,  whereas  this 
horse  was  all  black.  The  deacon  said  that  he  found 
the  horse  grazing  in  his  yard  at  daybreak,  and  that 
he  would  give  it  to  whoever  could  prove  it  to  be  his 
property.  Nobody  appeared  to  demand  it,  and 
people  soon  forgot  that  it  was  not  his.  He  ex- 
tended his  business  at  about  that  time  and  prospered ; 
he  became  a  rich  man  for  a  little  place ;  though,  as 
his  wealth  increased,  he  became  morose  and  averse 
to  company. 

One  day  a  rumor  went  around  that  a  belated 
traveller  had  seen  a  misty  thing  under  "  the  owl 
tree"  at  a  turn  of  a  road  where  owls  were  hooting, 
and  that  it  took  on  a  strange  likeness  to  the  missing 
clergyman.  Dickerman  paled  when  he  heard  this 
story,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  muttered  of  the 
folly  of  listening  to  boy  nonsense.  Ten  years  had 
gone  by — during  that  time  the  boys  had  avoided  the 
owl  tree  after  dark — when  a  clergyman  of  the  neigh- 
borhood was  hastily  summoned  to  see  Mr.  Dicker- 
man, who  was  said  to  be  suffering  from  overwork. 
He  found  the  deacon  in  his  house  alone,  pacing  the 
floor,  his  dress  disordered,  his  cheek  hectic. 

"  I  have  not  long  to  live,"  said  he,  "  nor  would  I 
live  longer  if  I  could.  I  am  haunted  day  and  night, 
and  there  is  no  peace,  no  rest  for  me  on  earth. 
206 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

They  say  that  Sharply's  spirit  has  appeared  at  the 
owl  tree.  Well,  his  body  lies  there.  They  accused 
me  of  taking  his  horse.  It  is  true.  A  little  black 
dye  on  his  head  and  breast  was  all  that  was  needed 
to  deceive  them.  Pray  for  me,  for  I  fear  my  soul  is 
lost.  I  killed  Sharply."  The  clergyman  recoiled. 
"  I  killed  him,"  the  wretched  man  went  on,  "  for 
the  money  that  he  had.  The  devil  prospered  me 
with  it.  In  my  will  I  leave  two  thousand  dollars  to 
his  widow  and  five  thousand  dollars  to  the  church  he 
was  collecting  for.  Will  there  be  mercy  for  me 
there  ?  I  dare  not  think  it.  Go  and  pray  for  me." 
The  clergyman  hastened  away,  but  was  hardly  out- 
side the  door  when  the  report  of  a  pistol  brought 
him  back.  Dickerman  lay  dead  on  the  floor. 
Sharply's  body  was  exhumed  from  the  shade  of  the 
owl  tree,  and  the  spot  was  never  haunted  after. 

A   CHESTNUT   LOG 

THERE  is  no  doubt  that  farmer  Lovel  had  read 
ancient  history  or  he  would  not  have  been 
so  ready  in  the  emergency  that  befell  him  one  time 
in  the  last  century.  He  had  settled  among  the  New 
Hampshire  hills  near  the  site  that  is  now  occupied 
by  the  village  of  Washington  and  had  a  real  good 
time  there  with  bears  and  Indians.  It  was  when 
he  was  splitting  rails  on  Lovel  Mountain — they 
named  it  for  him  afterward — that  he  found  himself 
surrounded  by  six  Indians,  who  told  him  that  he 
407 


Myths  and  Legends 

was  their  prisoner.  He  agreed  that  they  had  the 
advantage  over  him  and  said  that  he  would  go  quietly 
along  if  they  would  allow  him  to  finish  the  big 
chestnut  log  that  he  was  at  work  on.  As  he  was  a 
powerful  fellow  and  was  armed  with  an  axe  worth 
any  two  of  their  tomahawks,  and  as  he  would  be 
pretty  sure  to  have  the  life  of  at  least  one  of  them 
if  they  tried  to  drive  him  faster  than  he  wanted  to 
go,  they  consented.  He  said  that  he  would  be 
ready  all  the  sooner  if  they  would  help  him  to  pull 
the  big  log  apart,  and  they  agreed  to  help  him. 
Driving  a  wedge  into  the  long  split  he  asked  them 
to  take  hold,  and  when  they  had  done  this  he 
knocked  out  the  wedge  with  a  single  blow  and  the 
twelve  hands  were  caught  tight  in  the  closing  wood. 
Struggle  as  the  savages  might,  they  could  not  get 
free,  and  after  calmly  enjoying  the  situation  for  a 
few  minutes  he  walked  slowly  from  one  to  the  other 
and  split  open  the  heads  of  all  six.  Then  he  went 
to  work  again  splitting  up  more  chestnuts. 

THE   WATCHER   ON   WHITE   ISLAND 

r  I  "HE  Isles  of  Shoals,  a  little  archipelago  of  wind- 

_L        and  wave-swept  rocks  that  may  be  seen  on 

clear  days   from   the   New  Hampshire   coast,   have 

been  the  scene  of  some  mishaps  and  some  crimes. 

On   Boone   Island,  where    the    Nottingham    galley 

went  down  one  hundred   and   fifty  years   ago,  the 

survivors  turned  cannibals  to  escape  starvation,  while 

208 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

Haley's  Island  is  peopled  by  shipwrecked  Spanish 
ghosts  that  hail  vessels  and  beg  for  passage  back  to 
their  country.  The  pirate  Teach,  or  Blackbeard, 
used  to  put  in  at  these  islands  to  hide  his  treasure, 
and  one  of  his  lieutenants  spent  some  time  on  White 
Island  with  a  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had  abducted 
from  her  home  in  Scotland  and  who,  in  spite  of  his 
rough  life,  had  learned  to  love  him.  It  was  while 
walking  with  her  on  this  rock,  forgetful  of  his  trade 
and  the  crimes  he  had  been  stained  with,  that  one 
of  his  men  ran  up  to  report  a  sail  that  was  standing 
toward  the  islands.  The  pirate  ship  was  quickly 
prepared  for  action,  but  before  embarking,  mindful 
of  possible  flight  or  captivity,  the  lieutenant  made 
his  mistress  swear  that  she  would  guard  the  buried 
treasure  if  it  should  be  till  doomsday. 

The  ship  he  was  hurrying  to  meet  came  smoothly 
on  until  the  pirate  craft  was  well  in  range,  when 
ports  flew  open  along  the  stranger's  sides,  guns  were 
run  out,  and  a  heavy  broadside  splintered  through 
the  planks  of  the  robber  galley.  It  was  a  man-of- 
war,  not  a  merchantman,  that  had  run  Blackbeard 
down.  The  war-ship  closed  and  grappled  with  the 
corsair,  but  while  the  sailors  were  standing  at  the 
chains  ready  to  leap  aboard  and  complete  the  sub- 
jugation of  the  outlaws  a  mass  of  flame  burst  from 
the  pirate  ship,  both  vessels  were  hurled  in  frag- 
ments through  the  air,  and  a  roar  went  for  miles 
along  the  sea.  Blackbeard's  lieutenant  had  fired 
the  magazine  rather  than  submit  to  capture,  and  had 
14  209 


Myths  and  Legends 

blown  the  two  ships  into  a  common  ruin.  A  few 
of  both  crews  floated  to  the  islands  on  planks,  sore 
from  burns  and  bruises,  but  none  survived  the  cold 
and  hunger  of  the  winter.  The  pirate's  mistress 
was  among  the  first  to  die  ;  still,  true  to  her  promise, 
she  keeps  her  watch,  and  at  night  is  dimly  seen  on 
a  rocky  point  gazing  toward  the  east,  her  tall  figure 
enveloped  in  a  cloak,  her  golden  hair  unbound  upon 
her  shoulders,  her  pale  face  still  as  marble. 

CHOCORUA 

r  I  ""HIS  beautiful  alp  in  the  White  Mountains 
_I_  commemorates  in  its  name  a  prophet  of  the 
Pequawket  tribe  who,  prior  to  undertaking  a  journey, 
had  confided  his  son  to  a  friendly  settler,  Cornelius 
Campbell,  of  Tamworth.  The  boy  found  some 
poison  in  the  house  that  had  been  prepared  for  foxes, 
and,  thinking  it  to  be  some  delicacy,  he  drank  of  it 
and  died.  When  Chocorua  returned  he  could  not 
be  persuaded  that  his  son  had  fallen  victim  to  his 
own  ignorance,  but  ascribed  his  death  to  the  white 
man's  treachery,  and  one  day,  when  Campbell  en- 
tered his  cabin  from  the  fields,  he  found  there 
the  corpses  of  his  wife  and  children  scalped  and 
mangled. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  lament  at  such  a  time  :  hate 
was  stronger  than  sorrow.  A  fresh  trail  led  from 
his  door.  Seizing  his  rifle  he  set  forth  in  pursuit 
of  the  murderer.  A  mark  in  the  dust,  a  bent  grass 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

blade,  a  torn  leaf — these  were  guides  enough,  and 
following  on  through  bush  and  swamp  and  wood 
they  led  him  to  this  mountain,  and  up  the  slope  he 
scrambled  breathlessly.  At  the  summit,  statue-like, 
Chocorua  stood.  He  saw  the  avenger  coming,  and 
knew  himself  unarmed,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to 
escape  his  doom.  Drawing  himself  erect  and 
stretching  forth  his  hands  he  invoked  anathema  on 
his  enemies  in  these  words :  "  A  curse  upon  you, 
white  men  !  May  the  Great  Spirit  curse  you  when 
he  speaks  in  the  clouds,  and  his  words  are  fire ! 
Chocorua  had  a  son  and  you  killed  him  while  the 
sky  looked  bright.  Lightning  blast  your  crops ! 
Winds  and  fire  destroy  your  dwellings !  The  Evil 
One  breathe  death  upon  your  cattle  !  Your  graves 
lie  in  the  war-path  of  the  Indian  !  Panthers  howl 
and  wolves  fatten  over  your  bones !  Chocorua  goes 
to  the  Great  Spirit.  His  curse  stays  with  the  white 
man." 

The  report  of  Campbell's  rifle  echoed  from  the 
ledges  and  Chocorua  leaped  into  the  air,  plunging 
to  the  rocks  below.  His  mangled  remains  were 
afterward  found  and  buried  near  the  Tamworth 
path.  The  curse  had  its  effect,  for  pestilence  and 
storm  devastated  the  surrounding  country  and  the 
smaller  settlements  were  abandoned.  Campbell 
became  a  morose  hermit,  and  was  found  dead  in  his 
bed  two  years  afterward. 


211 


Myths  and  Legends 

PASSACONAWAY'S   RIDE   TO   HEAVEN 

THE  personality  of  Passaconaway,  the  powerful 
chief  and  prophet,  is  involved  in  doubt,  but 
there  can  be  no  misprision  of  his  wisdom.  By 
some  historians  he  has  been  made  one  with  St. 
Aspenquid,  the  earliest  of  native  missionaries  among 
the  Indians,  who,  after  his  conversion  by  French 
Jesuits,  travelled  from  Maine  to  the  Pacific,  preach- 
ing to  sixty-six  tribes,  healing  the  sick  and  working 
miracles,  returning  to  die  at  the  age  of  ninety-four. 
He  was  buried  on  the  top  of  Agamenticus,  Maine, 
where  his  manes  were  pacified  with  offerings  of  three 
thousand  slain  animals,  and  where  his  tombstone  stood 
for  a  century  after,  bearing  the  legend,  "  Present, 
useful ;  absent,  wanted  ;  living,  desired  ;  dying,  la- 
mented." 

By  others  Passaconaway  is  regarded  as  a  different 
person.  The  Child  of  the  Bear — to  English  his 
name — was  the  chief  of  the  Merrimacs  and  a  con- 
vert of  the  apostle  Eliot.  Natives  and  colonists 
alike  admired  him  for  his  eloquence,  his  bravery, 
and  his  virtue.  Before  his  conversion  he  was  a 
reputed  wizard  who  sought  by  magic  arts  to  repel 
the  invasion  of  his  woods  and  mountains  by  the 
white  men,  invoking  the  spirits  of  nature  against 
them  from  the  topmost  peak  of  the  Agiochooks, 
and  his  native  followers  declared  that  in  pursuance  of 
this  intent  he  made  water  burn,  rocks  move,  trees 
dance,  and  transformed  himself  into  a  mass  of  flame. 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

Such  was  his  power  over  the  forces  of  the  earth 
that  he  could  burn  a  tree  in  winter  and  from  its 
ashes  bring  green  leaves ;  he  made  dead  wood  blos- 
som and  a  farmer's  flail  to  bud,  while  a  snake's  skin 
he  could  cause  to  run.  At  the  age  of  one  hundred 
and  twenty  he  retired  from  his  tribe  and  lived  in  a 
lonely  wigwam  among  the  Pennacooks.  One  winter 
night  the  howling  of  wolves  was  heard,  and  a  pack 
came  dashing  through  the  village  harnessed  by  threes 
to  a  sledge  of  hickory  saplings  that  bore  a  tall  throne 
spread  with  furs.  The  wolves  paused  at  Passacona- 
way's  door.  The  old  chief  came  forth,  climbed 
upon  the  sledge,  and  was  borne  away  with  a  tri- 
umphal apostrophe  that  sounded  above  the  yelping 
and  snarling  of  his  train.  Across  Winnepesaukee's 
frozen  surface  they  sped  like  the  wind,  and  the 
belated  hunter  shrank  aside  as  he  saw  the  giant 
towering  against  the  northern  lights  and  heard  his 
death-song  echo  from  the  cliffs.  Through  pathless 
woods,  across  ravines,  the  wolves  sped  on,  with 
never  slackened  speed,  into  the  mazes  of  the  Agio- 
chooks  to  that  highest  peak  we  now  call  Washing- 
ton. Up  its  steep  wilderness  of  snow  the  ride  went 
furiously ;  the  summit  was  neared,  the  sledge  burst 
into  flame,  still  there  was  no  pause ;  the  height  was 
gained,  the  wolves  went  howling  into  darkness,  but 
the  car,  wrapped  in  sheaves  of  fire,  shot  like  a 
meteor  toward  the  sky  and  was  lost  amid  the  stars 
of  the  winter  night.  So  passed  the  Indian  king  to 
heaven. 

213 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   BALL   GAME   BY   THE   SACO 

WATER-GOBLINS  from  the  streams  about 
Katahdin  had  left  their  birthplace  and 
journeyed  away  to  the  Agiochooks,  making  their 
presence  known  to  the  Indians  of  that  region  by 
thefts  and  loss  of  life.  When  the  manitou,  Gloos- 
kap,  learned  that  these  goblins  were  eating  human 
flesh  and  committing  other  outrages,  he  took  on  their 
own  form,  turning  half  his  body  into  stone,  and 
went  in  search  of  them.  The  wigwam  had  been 
pitched  near  the  Home  of  the  Water  Fairies, — a 
name  absurdly  changed  by  the  people  of  North 
Conway  to  Diana's  Bath, — and  on  entering  he  was 
invited  to  take  meat.  The  tail  of  a  whale  was 
cooked  and  offered  to  him,  but  after  he  had  taken  it 
upon  his  knees  one  of  the  goblins  exclaimed,  "  That 
is  too  good  for  a  beggar  like  you,"  and  snatched  it 
away.  Glooskap  had  merely  to  wish  the  return  of 
the  dainty  when  it  flew  back  into  his  platter.  Then 
he  took  the  whale's  jaw,  and  snapped  it  like  a  reed ; 
he  filled  his  pipe  and  burned  the  tobacco  to  ashes  in 
one  inhalation ;  when  his  hosts  closed  the  wigwam 
and  smoked  vigorously,  intending  to  foul  the  air  and 
stupefy  him,  he  enjoyed  it,  while  they  grew  sick ; 
so  they  whispered  to  each  other,  "  This  is  a  mighty 
magician,  and  we  must  try  his  powers  in  another 
way." 

A  game  of  ball  was  proposed,  and,  adjourning  to 
a  sandy  level  at  the  bend  of  the  Saco,  they  began  to 
214 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

play,  but  Glooskap  found  that  the  ball  was  a  hideous 
skull  that  rolled  and  snapped  at  him  and  would  have 
torn  his  flesh  had  it  not  been  immortal  and  im- 
movable from  his  bones.  He  crushed  it  at  a  blow, 
and  breaking  off  the  bough  of  a  tree  he  turned  it 
by  a  word  into  a  skull  ten  times  larger  than  the 
other  that  flew  after  the  wicked  people  as  a  wildcat 
leaps  upon  a  rabbit.  Then  the  god  stamped  on  the 
sands  and  all  the  springs  were  opened  in  the  moun- 
tains, so  that  the  Saco  came  rising  through  the  val- 
ley with  a  roar  that  made  the  nations  tremble.  The 
goblins  were  caught  in  the  flood  and  swept  into  the 
sea,  where  Glooskap  changed  them  into  fish. 

THE   WHITE   MOUNTAINS 

FROM  times  of  old  these  noble  hills  have  been 
the  scenes  of  supernatural  visitations  and 
mysterious  occurrences.  The  tallest  peak  of  the 
Agiochooks — as  they  were,  in  Indian  naming — was 
the  seat  of  God  himself,  and  the  encroachment 
there  of  the  white  man  was  little  liked.  Near 
Fabyan's  was  once  a  mound,  since  levelled  by  pick 
and  spade,  that  was  known  as  the  Giant's  Grave. 
Ethan  Allen  Crawford,  a  skilful  hunter,  daring 
explorer,  and  man  of  herculean  frame,  lived,  died, 
and  is  buried  here,  and  near  the  ancient  hillock  he 
built  one  of  the  first  public  houses  in  the  mountains. 
It  was  burned.  Another,  and  yet  another  hostelry 
was  builded  on  the  site,  but  they  likewise  were 
215 


Myths  and  Legends 

destroyed  by  fire.  Then  the  enterprise  was  aban- 
doned, for  it  was  remembered  that  an  Indian  once 
mounted  this  grave,  waved  a  torch  from  its  top,  and 
cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  No  pale-face  shall  take  root 
on  this  spot.  This  has  the  Great  Spirit  whispered 
in  my  ear." 

Governor  Wentworth,  while  on  a  lonely  tour 
through  his  province,  found  this  cabin  of  Crawford's 
and  passed  a  night  there,  tendering  many  compli- 
ments to  the  austere  graces  of  the  lady  of  the  house 
and  drinking  himself  into  the  favor  of  the  husband, 
who  proclaimed  him  the  prince  of  good  fellows. 
On  leaving,  the  guest  exacted  of  Crawford  a  visit 
to  Wolfeborough,  where  he  was  to  inquire  for 
"  Old  Wentworth."  This  visit  was  undertaken 
soon  after,  and  the  sturdy  frontiersman  was  dis- 
mayed at  finding  himself  in  the  house  of  the  royal 
governor ;  but  his  reception  was  hearty  enough  to 
put  him  at  his  ease,  and  when  he  returned  to  the 
mountains  he  carried  in  his  pocket  a  deed  of  a  thou- 
sand acres  of  forest  about  his  little  farm.  The  family 
that  he  founded  became  wealthy  and  increased,  by 
many  an  acre,  the  measure  of  that  royal  grant. 

Not  far  below  this  spot,  in  the  wildest  part  of  the 
Notch,  shut  in  by  walls  of  rock  thousands  of  feet 
high,  is  the  old  Willey  House,  and  this,  too,  was 
the  scene  of  a  tragedy,  for  in  1826  a  storm  loosened 
the  soil  on  Mount  Willey  and  an  enormous  landslide 
occurred.  The  people  in  the  house  rushed  forth 
on  hearing  the  approach  of  the  slide  and  met  death 
216 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

almost  at  their  door.  Had  they  remained  within 
they  would  have  been  unharmed,  for  the  avalanche 
was  divided  by  a  wedge  of  rock  behind  the  house, 
and  the  little  inn  was  saved.  Seven  people  are 
known  to  have  been  killed,  and  it  was  rumored  that 
there  was  another  victim  in  a  young  man  whose 
name  was  unknown  and  who  was  walking  through 
the  mountains  to  enjoy  their  beauty.  The  messen- 
ger who  bore  the  tidings  of  the  destruction  of  the 
family  was  barred  from  reaching  North  Conway  by 
the  flood  in  the  Saco,  so  he  stood  at  the  brink  of 
the  foaming  river  and  rang  a  peal  on  a  trumpet. 
This  blast  echoing  around  the  hills  in  the  middle 
of  the  night  roused  several  men  from  their  beds  to 
know  its  meaning.  The  dog  belonging  to  the  inn 
is  said  to  have  given  first  notice  to  people  below  the 
Notch  that  something  was  wrong,  but  his  moaning 
and  barking  were  misunderstood,  and  after  running 
back  and  forth,  as  if  to  summon  help,  he  disap- 
peared. At  the  hour  of  the  accident  James  Willey, 
of  Conway,  had  a  dream  in  which  he  saw  his 
dead  brother  standing  by  him.  He  related  the  story 
of  the  catastrophe  to  the  sleeping  man  and  said  that 
when  "  the  world's  last  knell"  sounded  they  were 
going  for  safety  to  the  foot  of  the  steep  mountain, 
for  the  Saco  had  risen  twenty-four  feet  in  seven 
hours  and  threatened  to  ingulf  them  in  front. 

Another  spot  of  interest  in  the  Notch  is  Nancy's 
Brook.     It  was  at  the  point  where  this  stream  comes 
foaming  from  Mount  Nancy  into  the  great   ravine 
117 


Myths  and  Legends 

that  the  girl  whose  name  is  given  to  it  was  found 
frozen  to  death  in  a  shroud  of  snow  in  the  fall  of 
1788.  She  had  set  out  alone  from  Jefferson  in  search 
of  a  young  farmer  who  was  to  have  married  her,  and 
walked  thirty  miles  through  trackless  snow  between 
sunset  and  dawn.  Then  her  strength  gave  out  and 
she  sank  beside  the  road  never  to  rise  again.  Her 
recreant  lover  went  mad  with  remorse  when  he 
learned  the  manner  of  her  death  and  did  not  long 
survive  her,  and  men  who  have  traversed  the  savage 
passes  of  the  Notch  on  chill  nights  in  October  have 
fancied  that  they  heard,  above  the  clash  of  the  stream 
and  whispering  of  the  woods,  long,  shuddering  groans 
mingled  with  despairing  cries  and  gibbering  laughter. 

The  birth  of  Peabody  River  came  about  from  a 
cataclysm  of  less  violent  nature  than  some  of  the 
avalanches  that  have  so  scarred  the  mountains.  In 
White's  "  History  of  New  England,"  Mr.  Peabody, 
for  whom  the  stream  is  named,  is  reported  as  having 
taken  shelter  in  an  Indian  cabin  on  the  heights 
where  the  river  has  its  source.  During  the  night 
a  loud  roaring  waked  the  occupants  of  the  hut  and 
they  sprang  forth,  barely  in  time  to  save  their  lives  ; 
for,  hardly  had  they  gained  the  open  ground  before 
a  cavern  burst  open  in  the  hill  and  a  flood  of  water 
gushed  out,  sweeping  away  the  shelter  and  cutting  a 
broad  swath  through  the  forest. 

Although  the  Pilot  Mountains  are  supposed  to 
have  taken  their  name  from  the  fact  that  they  served 
as  landmarks  to  hunters  who  were  seeking  the  Con- 
218 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

necticut  River  from  the  Lancaster  district,  an  old 
story  is  still  told  of  one  Willard,  who  was  lost  amid 
the  defiles  of  this  range,  and  nearly  perished  with 
hunger.  While  lying  exhausted  on  the  mountain- 
side his  dog  would  leave  him  every  now  and  then 
and  return  after  a  couple  of  hours.  Though  Willard 
was  half  dead,  he  determined  to  use  his  last  strength 
in  following  the  animal,  and  as  a  result  was  led  by 
a  short  cut  to  his  own  camp,  where  provisions  were 
plenty,  and  where  the  intelligent  creature  had  been 
going  for  food.  The  dog  was  christened  Pilot,  in 
honor  of  this  service,  and  the  whole  range  is  thought 
by  many  to  be  named  in  his  honor. 

Waternomee  Falls,  on  Hurricane  Creek,  at  War- 
ren, are  bordered  with  rich  moss  where  fairies  used 
to  dance  and  sing  in  the  moonlight.  These  sprites 
were  the  reputed  children  of  Indians  that  had  been 
stolen  from  their  wigwams  and  given  to  eat  of  fairy 
bread,  that  dwarfed  and  changed  them  in  a  moment. 
Barring  their  kidnapping  practices  the  elves  were  an 
innocent  and  joyous  people,  and  they  sought  more 
distant  hiding-places  in  the  wilderness  when  the  stern 
churchmen  and  cruel  rangers  penetrated  their  sylvan 
precincts. 

An  old  barrack  story  has  it  that  Lieutenant  Cham- 
berlain, who  fought  under  Lovewell,  was  pursued 
along  the  base  of  Melvin  Peak  by  Indians  and 
was  almost  in  their  grasp  when  he  reached  Ossipee 
Falls.  It  seemed  as  if  there  were  no  alternative  be- 
tween death  by  the  tomahawk  and  death  by  a  fall  to 
219 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  rocks  below,  for  the  chasm  here  is  eighteen  feet 
wide ;  but  without  stopping  to  reckon  chances  he 
put  his  strength  into  a  running  jump,  and  to  the 
amazement  of  those  in  pursuit  and  perhaps  to  his 
own  surprise  he  cleared  the  gap  and  escaped  into  the 
woods.  The  foremost  of  the  Indians  attempted  the 
leap,  but  plunged  to  his  death  in  the  ravine. 

The  Eagle  Range  was  said  to  be  the  abode,  two 
hundred  years  ago,  of  a  man  of  strange  and  vener- 
able appearance,  whom  the  Indians  regarded  with 
superstitious  awe  and  never  tried  to  molest.  He 
slept  in  a  cave  on  the  south  slope  and  ranged  the 
forest  in  search  of  game,  muttering  and  gesturing  to 
himself.  He  is  thought  to  be  identified  with  Thomas 
Crager,  whose  wife  had  been  hanged  in  Salem  as  a 
witch,  and  whose  only  child  had  been  stolen  by 
Indians.  After  a  long,  vain  search  for  the  little  one 
he  gave  way  to  a  bitter  moroseness,  and  avoided  the 
habitations  of  civilized  man  and  savages  alike.  It  is 
a  satisfaction  to  know  that  before  he  died  he  found 
his  daughter,  though  she  was  the  squaw  of  an  Indian 
hunter  and  was  living  with  his  tribe  on  the  shore 
of  the  St.  Lawrence. 

THE   VISION   ON  MOUNT   ADAMS 

THERE    are   many   traditions   connected   with 
Mount  Adams  that  have  faded  out  of  mem- 
ory.    Old  people  remember  that  in  their  childhood 
there  was   talk  of  the  discovery  of   a  magic  stone ; 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

of  an  Indian's  skeleton  that  appeared  in  a  speaking 
storm  ;  of  a  fortune-teller  that  set  off  on  a  midnight 
quest,  far  up  among  the  crags  and  eyries.  In  Octo- 
ber, 1765,  a  detachment  of  nine  of  Rogers's  Rangers 
began  the  return  from  a  Canadian  foray,  bearing  with 
them  plate,  candlesticks,  and  a  silver  statue  that  they 
had  rifled  from  the  Church  of  St.  Francis.  An 
Indian  who  had  undertaken  to  guide  the  party 
through  the  Notch  proved  faithless,  and  led  them 
among  labyrinthine  gorges  to  the  head  of  Israel's 
River,  where  he  disappeared,  after  poisoning  one 
of  the  troopers  with  a  rattlesnake's  fang.  Losing 
all  reckoning,  the  Rangers  tramped  hither  and  thither 
among  the  snowy  hills  and  sank  down,  one  by  one, 
to  die  in  the  wilderness,  a  sole  survivor  reaching  a 
settlement  after  many  days,  with  his  knapsack  filled 
with  human  flesh. 

In  1816  the  candlesticks  were  recovered  near  Lake 
Memphremagog,  but  the  statue  has  never  been  laid 
hold  upon.  The  spirits  of  the  famished  men  were 
wont,  for  many  winters,  to  cry  in  the  woods,  and 
once  a  hunter,  camped  on  the  side  of  Mount  Adams, 
was  awakened  at  midnight  by  the  notes  of  an  organ. 
The  mists  were  rolling  off,  and  he  found  that  he 
had  gone  to  sleep  near  a  mighty  church  of  stone 
that  shone  in  soft  light.  The  doors  were  flung 
back,  showing  a  tribe  of  Indians  kneeling  within. 
Candles  sparkled  on  the  altar,  shooting  their  rays 
through  clouds  of  incense,  and  the  rocks  shook 
with  thunder-gusts  of  music.  Suddenly  church, 


Myths  and  Legends 

lights,  worshippers  vanished,  and  from  the  mists 
came  forth  a  line  of  uncouth  forms,  marching  in 
silence.  As  they  started  to  descend  the  mountain 
a  silver  image,  floating  in  the  air,  spread  a  pair  of 
gleaming  pinions  and  took  flight,  disappearing  in 
the  chaos  of  battlemented  rocks  above. 


THE   GREAT   CARBUNCLE 

HIGH  on  the  eastern  face  of  Mount  Monroe 
shone  the  Great  Carbuncle,  its  flash  scintil- 
lating for  miles  by  day,  its  dusky  crimson  glowing 
among  the  ledges  at  night.  The  red  men  said  that 
it  hung  in  the  air,  and  that  the  soul  of  an  Indian — 
killed,  that  he  might  guard  the  spot — made  approach 
perilous  to  men  of  all  complexions  and  purposes. 
As  late  as  Ethan  Crawford's  time  one  search  band 
took  a  "  good  man"  to  lay  the  watcher,  when  they 
strove  to  scale  the  height,  but  they  returned  "  sorely 
bruised,  treasureless,  and  not  even  saw  that  wonder- 
ful sight."  The  value  of  the  stone  tempted  many, 
but  those  who  sought  it  had  to  toil  through  a  dense 
forest,  and  on  arriving  at  the  mountain  found  its 
glories  eclipsed  by  intervening  abutments,  nor  could 
they  get  near  it.  Rocks  covered  with  crystals,  at 
first  thought  to  be  diamonds,  were  readily  despoiled 
of  their  treasure,  but  the  Great  Carbuncle  burned 
on,  two  thousand  feet  above  them,  at  the  head  of 
the  awful  chasm  of  Oakes  Gulf,  and  baffled  seekers 
likened  it  to  the  glare  of  an  evil  eye. 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

There  was  one  who  had  grown  old  in  searching 
for  this  gem,  often  scrambling  over  the  range  in 
wind  and  snow  and  cloud,  and  at  last  he  reached  a 
precipitous  spot  he  had  never  attained  before.  Great 
was  his  joy,  for  the  Carbuncle  was  within  his  reach, 
blazing  into  his  eyes  in  the  noon  sunlight  as  if  it 
held,  crystallized  in  its  depths,  the  brightness  of  all 
the  wine  that  had  ever  gladdened  the  tired  hearts  of 
men.  There  were  rivals  in  the  search,  and  on  reach- 
ing the  plateau  they  looked  up  and  saw  him  kneeling 
on  a  narrow  ledge  with  arms  extended  as  in  rapture. 
They  called  to  him.  He  answered  not.  He  was 
dead — dead  of  joy  and  triumph.  While  they  looked 
a  portion  of  the  crag  above  him  fell  away  and  rolled 
from  rock  to  rock,  marking  its  course  with  flashes  of 
bloody  fire,  until  it  reached  the  Lake  of  the  Clouds, 
and  the  waters  of  that  tarn  drowned  its  glory.  Yet 
those  waters  are  not  always  black,  and  sometimes 
the  hooked  crest  of  Mount  Monroe  is  outlined 
against  the  night  sky  in  a  ruddy  glow. 

SKINNER'S   CAVE 

THE  abhorrence  to  paying  taxes  and  duties — or 
any  other  levy  from  which  an  immediate  and 
personal  good  is  not  promised — is  too  deeply  rooted 
in  human  nature  to  be  affected  by  statutes,  and  when- 
ever it  is  possible  to  buy  commodities  that  have 
escaped  the  observation  of  the  revenue  officers  many 
are  tempted  to  do  so  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  defying 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  law.  In  the  early  part  of  this  century  the  north- 
ern farmers  and  their  wives  were,  in  a  way,  providing 
themselves  with  laces,  silver-ware,  brandy,  and  other 
protected  and  dreadful  articles,  on  which  it  was  evi- 
dent that  somebody  had  forgotten  to  pay  duty.  The 
customs  authorities  on  the  American  side  of  the 
border  were  long  puzzled  by  the  irruption  of  these 
forbidden  things,  but  suspicion  ultimately  fell  on  a 
fellow  of  gigantic  size,  named  Skinner. 

It  was  believed  that  this  outlaw  carried  on  the 
crime  of  free  trade  after  sunset,  hiding  his  merchan- 
dise by  day  on  the  islands  of  Lake  Memphremagog. 
This  delightful  sheet  of  water  lies  half  in  Canada 
and  half  in  Vermont — agreeably  to  the  purpose  of 
such  as  he.  Province  Island  is  still  believed  to  con- 
tain buried  treasure,  but  the  rock  that  contains  Skin- 
ner's Cave  was  the  smuggler's  usual  haunt,  and  when 
pursued  he  rowed  to  this  spot  and  effected  a  disap- 
pearance, because  he  entered  the  cave  on  the  north- 
west side,  where  it  was  masked  by  shrubbery.  One 
night  the  officers  landed  on  this  island  after  he  had 
gone  into  hiding,  and  after  diligent  search  discovered 
his  boat  drawn  up  in  a  covert.  They  pushed  it  into 
the  lake,  where  the  winds  sent  it  adrift,  and,  his  com- 
munication with  the  shore  thus  cut  off,  the  outlaw 
perished  miserably  of  hunger.  His  skeleton  was 
found  in  the  cavern  some  years  later. 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

YET   THEY  CALL  IT   LOVER'S  LEAP 

IN  the  lower  part  of  the  township  of  Cavendish, 
Vermont,  the  Black  River  seeks  a  lower  level 
through  a  gorge  in  the  foot-hills  of  the  Green 
Mountains.  The  scenery  here  is  romantic  and  im- 
pressive, for  the  river  makes  its  way  along  the  ravine 
in  a  series  of  falls  and  rapids  that  are  overhung  by 
trees  and  ledges,  while  the  geologist  finds  something 
worth  looking  at  in  the  caves  and  pot-holes  that  in- 
dicate an  older  level  of  the  river.  At  a  turn  in  the 
ravine  rises  the  sheer  precipice  of  Lover's  Leap. 
It  is  a  vertical  descent  of  about  eighty  feet,  the 
water  swirling  at  its  foot  in  a  black  and  angry  mael- 
strom. It  is  a  spot  whence  lovers  might  easily  step 
into  eternity,  were  they  so  disposed,  and  the  name  fits 
delightfully  into  the  wild  and  somber  scene ;  but  ask 
any  good  villager  thereabout  to  relate  the  legend  of 
the  place  and  he  will  tell  you  this : 

About  forty  years  ago  a  couple  of  young  farmers 
went  to  the  Leap — which  then  had  no  name — to  pry 
out  some  blocks  of  the  schistose  rock  for  a  founda- 
tion wall.  They  found  a  good  exposure  of  the  rock 
beneath  the  turf  and  began  to  quarry  it.  In  the 
earnestness  of  the  work  one  of  the  men  forgot  that 
he  was  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  precipice,  and 
through  a  slip  of  his  crowbar  he  lost  his  balance  and 
went  reeling  into  the  gulf.  His  horrified  companion 
crept  to  the  edge,  expecting  to  see  his  mangled  corpse 
tossing  in  the  whirlpool,  but,  to  his  amazement,  the 
15  "5 


Myths  and  Legends 

unfortunate  was  crawling  up  the  face  of  a  huge  table 
of  stone  that  had  fallen  from  the  opposite  wall  and 
lay  canted  against  it. 

"Hello!"  shouted  the  man  overhead.  "Are  you 
hurt  much  ?" 

The  victim  of  the  accident  slowly  got  upon  his 
feet,  felt  cautiously  of  his  legs  and  ribs,  and  began 
to  search  through  his  pockets,  his  face  betraying  an 
anxiety  that  grew  deeper  and  deeper  as  the  search 
went  on.  In  due  time  the  answer  came  back,  delib- 
erate, sad,  and  nasal,  but  distinct  above  the  roar  of 
the  torrent :  "  Waal,  I  ain't  hurt  much,  but  I'll  be 
durned  if  I  haven't  lost  my  jack-knife  !" 

And  he  was  pulled  out  of  the  gorge  without  it. 

SALEM   AND   OTHER  WITCHCRAFT 

THE  extraordinary  delusion  recorded  as  Salem 
witchcraft  was  but  a  reflection  of  a  kindred 
insanity  in  the  Old  World  that  was  not  extirpated 
until  its  victims  had  been  counted  by  thousands. 
That  human  beings  should  be  accused  of  leaguing 
themselves  with  Satan  to  plague  their  fellows  and 
overthrow  the  powers  of  righteousness  is  remarkable, 
but  that  they  should  admit  their  guilt  is  incompre- 
hensible, albeit  the  history  of  every  popular  delusion 
shows  that  weak  minds  are  so  affected  as  to  lose 
control  of  themselves  and  that  a  whimsey  can  be  as 
epidemic  as  small-pox. 

Such  was  the  case  in  1692  when  the  witchcraft 
126 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

madness,  which  might  have  been  stayed  by  a  season- 
able spanking,  broke  out  in  Danvers,  Massachusetts, 
the  first  victim  being  a  wild  Irishwoman,  named 
Glover,  and  speedily  involved  the  neighboring  com- 
munity of  Salem.  The  mischiefs  done  by  witches 
were  usually  trifling,  and  it  never  occurred  to  their 
prosecutors  that  there  was  an  inconsistency  between 
their  pretended  powers  and  their  feeble  deeds,  or 
that  it  was  strange  that  those  who  might  live  in  regal 
luxury  should  be  so  wretchedly  poor.  Aches  and 
pains,  blight  of  crops,  disease  of  cattle,  were  charged 
to  them  ;  children  complained  of  being  pricked  with 
thorns  and  pins  (the  pins  are  still  preserved  in  Salem), 
and  if  hysterical  girls  spoke  the  name  of  any  feeble 
old  woman,  while  in  flighty  talk,  they  virtually  sen- 
tenced her  to  die.  The  word  of  a  child  of  eleven 
years  sufficed  to  hang,  burn,  or  drown  a  witch. 

Giles  Corey,  a  blameless  man  of  eighty,  was  con- 
demned to  the  mediasval  peine  forte  et  dure,  his  body 
being  crushed  beneath  a  load  of  rocks  and  timbers. 
He  refused  to  plead  in  court,  and  when  the  beams 
were  laid  upon  him  he  only  cried,  "  More  weight !" 
The  shade  of  the  unhappy  victim  haunted  the  scene 
of  his  execution  for  years,  and  always  came  to  warn 
the  people  of  calamities.  A  child  of  five  and  a  dog 
were  also  hanged  after  formal  condemnation.  Gal- 
lows Hill,  near  Salem,  witnessed  many  sad  tragedies, 
and  the  old  elm  that  stood  on  Boston  Common 
until  1876  was  said  to  have  served  as  a  gallows  for 
witches  and  Quakers.  The  accuser  of  one  day  was 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  prisoner  of  the  next,  and  not  even  the  clergy 
were  safe. 

A  few  escapes  were  made,  like  that  of  a  blue-eyed 
maid  of  Wenham,  whose  lover  aided  her  to  break 
the  wooden  jail  and  carried  her  safely  beyond  the 
Merrimac,  finding  a  home  for  her  among  the 
Quakers  ;  and  that  of  Miss  Wheeler,  of  Salem,  who 
had  fallen  under  suspicion,  and  whose  brothers  hur- 
ried her  into  a  boat,  rowed  around  Cape  Ann,  and 
safely  bestowed  her  in  "  the  witch  house"  at  Pigeon 
Cove.  Many,  however,  fled  to  other  towns  rather 
than  run  the  risk  of  accusation,  which  commonly 
meant  death. 

When  the  wife  of  Philip  English  was  arrested 
he,  too,  asked  to  share  her  fate,  and  both  were, 
through  friendly  intercession,  removed  to  Boston, 
where  they  were  allowed  to  have  their  liberty  by 
day  on  condition  that  they  would  go  to  jail  every 
night.  Just  before  they  were  to  be  taken  back  to 
Salem  for  trial  they  went  to  church  and  heard  the 
Rev.  Joshua  Moody  preach  from  the  text,  "  If  they 
persecute  you  in  one  city,  flee  unto  another."  The 
good  clergyman  not  only  preached  goodness,  but 
practised  it,  and  that  night  the  door  of  their  prison 
was  opened.  Furnished  with  an  introduction  from 
Governor  Phipps  to  Governor  Fletcher,  of  New 
York,  they  made  their  way  to  that  settlement,  and 
remained  there  in  safe  and  courteous  keeping  until 
the  people  of  Salem  had  regained  their  senses,  when 
they  returned.  Mrs.  English  died,  soon  after,  from 
228 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

the  effects  of  cruelty  and  anxiety,  and  although  Mr. 
Moody  was  generally  commended  for  his  substitution 
of  sense  and  justice  for  law,  there  were  bigots  who 
persecuted  him  so  constantly  that  he  removed  to 
Plymouth. 

According  to  the  belief  of  the  time  a  witch  or 
wizard  compacted  with  Satan  for  the  gift  of  super- 
natural power,  and  in  return  was  to  give  up  his  soul 
to  the  evil  one  after  his  life  was  over.  The  deed 
was  signed  in  blood  of  the  witch  and  horrible  cere- 
monies confirmed  the  compact.  Satan  then  gave 
his  ally  a  familiar  in  the  form  of  a  dog,  ape,  cat,  or 
other  animal,  usually  small  and  black,  and  sometimes 
an  undisguised  imp.  To  suckle  these  "  familiars" 
with  the  blood  of  a  witch  was  forbidden  in  English 
law,  which  ranked  it  as  a  felony ;  but  they  were 
thus  nourished  in  secret,  and  by  their  aid  the  witch 
might  raise  storms,  blight  crops,  abort  births,  lame 
cattle,  topple  over  houses,  and  cause  pains,  convul- 
sions, and  illness.  If  she  desired  to  hurt  a  person 
she  made  a  clay  or  waxen  image  in  his  likeness,  and 
the  harms  and  indignities  wreaked  on  the  puppet 
would  be  suffered  by  the  one  bewitched,  a  knife  or 
needle  thrust  in  the  waxen  body  being  felt  acutely 
by  the  living  one,  no  matter  how  far  distant  he 
might  be.  By  placing  this  image  in  running  water, 
hot  sunshine,  or  near  a  fire,  the  living  flesh  would 
waste  as  this  melted  or  dissolved,  and  the  person  thus 
wrought  upon  would  die.  This  belief  is  still  cur- 
rent among  negroes  affected  by  the  voodoo  super- 
229 


Myths  and  Legends 

stitions  of  the  South.  The  witch,  too,  had  the 
power  of  riding  winds,  usually  with  a  broomstick 
for  a  conveyance,  after  she  had  smeared  the  broom 
or  herself  with  magic  ointment,  and  the  flocking  of 
the  unhallowed  to  their  sabbaths  in  snaky  bogs  or 
on  lonely  mountain  tops  has  been  described  minutely 
by  those  who  claim  to  have  seen  the  sight.  Some- 
times they  cackled  and  gibbered  through  the  night 
before  the  houses  of  the  clergy,  and  it  was  only  at 
Christmas  that  their  power  failed  them.  The  meet- 
ings were  devoted  to  wild  and  obscene  orgies,  and 
the  intercourse  of  fiends  and  witches  begot  a  progeny 
of  toads  and  snakes. 

Naturally  the  Indians  were  accused,  for  they 
recognized  the  existence  of  both  good  and  evil 
spirits,  their  medicine-men  cured  by  incantations 
in  the  belief  that  devils  were  thus  driven  out  of 
their  patients,  and  in  the  early  history  of  the  country 
the  red  man  was  credited  by  white  settlers  with 
powers  hardly  inferior  to  those  of  the  oriental  and 
European  magicians  of  the  middle  ages.  Cotton 
Mather  detected  a  relation  between  Satan  and  the 
Indians,  and  he  declares  that  certain  of  the  Algon- 
quins  were  trained  from  boyhood  as  powahs,  pow- 
wows, or  wizards,  acquiring  powers  of  second  sight 
and  communion  with  gods  and  spirits  through  absti- 
nence from  food  and  sleep  and  the  observance  of  rites. 
Their  severe  discipline  made  them  victims  of  nervous 
excitement  and  the  responsibilities  of  conjuration 
had  on  their  minds  an  effect  similar  to  that  produced 
230 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

by  gases  from  the  rift  in  Delphos  on  the  Apollonian 
oracles,  their  manifestations  of  insanity  or  frenzy 
passing  for  deific  or  infernal  possession.  When 
John  Gibb,  a  Scotchman,  who  had  gone  mad  through 
religious  excitement,  was  shipped  to  this  country  by 
his  tired  fellow-countrymen,  the  Indians  hailed  him  as 
a  more  powerful  wizard  than  any  of  their  number,  and 
he  died  in  1720,  admired  and  feared  by  them  because 
of  the  familiarity  with  spirits  out  of  Hobbomocko 
(hell)  that  his  ravings  and  antics  were  supposed  to 
indicate.  Two  Indian  servants  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Purvis,  of  Salem,  having  tried  by  a  spell  to  discover 
a  witch,  were  executed  as  witches  themselves.  The 
savages,  who  took  Salem  witchcraft  at  its  worth, 
were  astonished  at  its  deadly  effect,  and  the  English 
may  have  lost  some  influence  over  the  natives  in 
consequence  of  this  madness.  "  The  Great  Spirit 
sends  no  witches  to  the  French,"  they  said.  Barrow 
Hill,  near  Amesbury,  was  said  to  be  the  meeting- 
place  for  Indian  powwows  and  witches,  and  at  late 
hours  of  the  night  the  light  of  fires  gleamed  from 
its  top,  while  shadowy  forms  glanced  athwart  it. 
Old  men  say  that  the  lights  are  still  there  in  winter, 
though  modern  doubters  declare  that  they  were  the 
aurora  borealis. 

But  the  belief  in  witches  did  not  die  even  when 
the  Salem  people  came  to  their  senses.  In  the 
Merrimac  valley  the  devil  found  converts  for  many 
years  after :  Goody  Mose,  of  Rocks  village,  who 
tumbled  down-stairs  when  a  big  beetle  was  killed  at 
231 


Myths  and  Legends 

an  evening  party,  some  miles  away,  after  it  had  been 
bumping  into  the  faces  of  the  company ;  Goody 
Whitcher,  of  Amesbury,  whose  loom  kept  banging 
day  and  night  after  she  was  dead  ;  Goody  Sloper, 
of  West  Newbury,  who  went  home  lame  directly 
that  a  man  had  struck  his  axe  into  the  beam  of  a 
house  that  she  had  bewitched,  but  who  recovered 
her  strength  and  established  an  improved  reputation 
when,  in  1794,  she  swam  out  to  a  capsized  boat  and 
rescued  two  of  the  people  who  were  in  peril ; 
Goodman  Nichols,  of  Rocks  village,  who  "  spelled" 
a  neighbor's  son,  compelling  him  to  run  up  one  end 
of  the  house,  along  the  ridge,  and  down  the  other 
end,  "  troubling  the  family  extremely  by  his  strange 
proceedings ;"  Susie  Martin,  also  of  Rocks,  who 
was  hanged  in  spite  of  her  devotions  in  jail,  though 
the  rope  danced  so  that  it  could  not  be  tied,  but  a 
crow  overhead  called  for  a  withe  and  the  law  was 
executed  with  that;  and  Goody  Morse,  of  Market 
and  High  Streets,  Newburyport,  whose  baskets  and 
pots  danced  through  her  house  continually  and  who 
was  seen  "  flying  about  the  sun  as  if  she  had  been 
cut  in  twain,  or  as  if  the  devil  did  hide  the  lower 
part  of  her."  The  hill  below  Easton,  Pennsylvania, 
called  Hexenkopf  (Witch's  head),  was  described  by 
German  settlers  as  a  place  of  nightly  gathering  for 
weird  women,  who  whirled  about  its  top  in  "  linked 
dances"  and  sang  in  deep  tones  mingled  with  awful 
laughter.  After  one  of  these  women,  in  Williams 
township,  had  been  punished  for  enchanting  a 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

twenty-dollar  horse,  their  sabbaths  were  held  more 
quietly.  Mom  Rinkle,  whose  "  rock"  is  pointed 
out  beside  the  Wissahickon,  in  Philadelphia,  "  drank 
dew  from  acorn-cups  and  had  the  evil  eye."  Juan 
Perea,  of  San  Mateo,  New  Mexico,  would  fly  with 
his  chums  to  meetings  in  the  mountains  in  the  shape 
of  a  fire-ball.  During  these  sallies  he  left  his  own 
eyes  at  home  and  wore  those  of  some  brute  animal. 
It  was  because  his  dog  ate  his  eyes  when  he  had 
carelessly  put  them  on  a  table  that  he  had  always 
afterward  to  wear  those  of  a  cat.  Within  the 
present  century  an  old  woman  who  lived  in  a  hut 
on  the  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  was  held  to  be 
responsible  for  local  storms  and  accidents.  As  late 
as  1889  two  Zufii  Indians  were  hanged  on  the  wall 
of  an  old  Spanish  church  near  their  pueblo  in  Ari- 
zona on  a  charge  of  having  blown  away  the  rain- 
clouds  in  a  time  of  drouth.  It  was  held  that  there 
was  something  uncanny  in  the  event  that  gave  the 
name  of  Gallows  Hill  to  an  eminence  near  Falls 
Village,  Connecticut,  for  a  strange  black  man  was 
found  hanging,  dead,  to  a  tree  near  its  top  one 
morning. 

Moll  Pitcher,  a  successful  sorcerer  and  fortune- 
teller of  old  Lynn,  has  figured  in  obsolete  poems, 
plays,  and  romances.  She  lived  in  a  cottage  at  the 
foot  of  High  Rock,  where  she  was  consulted,  not 
merely  by  people  of  respectability,  but  by  those 
who  had  knavish  schemes  to  prosecute  and  who 
wanted  to  learn  in  advance  the  outcome  of  their 
233 


Myths  and  Legends 

designs.  Many  a  ship  was  deserted  at  the  hour  of 
sailing  because  she  boded  evil  of  the  voyage.  She 
was  of  medium  height,  big-headed,  tangle-haired, 
long-nosed,  and  had  a  searching  black  eye.  The 
sticks  that  she  carried  were  cut  from  a  hazel  that 
hung  athwart  a  brook  where  an  unwedded  mother 
had  drowned  her  child.  A  girl  who  went  to  her 
for  news  of  her  lover  lost  her  reason  when  the  witch, 
moved  by  a  malignant  impulse,  described  his  death 
in  a  fiercely  dramatic  manner.  One  day  the  missing 
ship  came  bowling  into  port,  and  the  shock  of  joy 
that  the  girl  experienced  when  the  sailor  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  restored  her  erring  senses.  When 
Moll  Pitcher  died  she  was  attended  by  the  little 
daughter  of  the  woman  she  had  so  afflicted. 

John,  or  Edward,  Dimond,  grandfather  of  Moll 
Pitcher,  was  a  benevolent  wizard.  When  vessels 
were  trying  to  enter  the  port  of  Marblehead  in  a 
heavy  gale  or  at  night,  their  crews  were  startled  to 
hear  a  trumpet  voice  pealing  from  the  skies,  plainly 
audible  above  the  howling  and  hissing  of  any  tem- 
pest, telling  them  how  to  lay  their  course  so  as  to 
reach  smooth  water.  This  was  the  voice  of  Dimond, 
speaking  from  his  station,  miles  away  in  the  village 
cemetery.  He  always  repaired  to  this  place  in 
troublous  weather  and  shouted  orders  to  the  ships 
that  were  made  visible  to  him  by  mystic  power  as 
he  strode  to  and  fro  among  the  graves.  When 
thieves  came  to  him  for  advice  he  charmed  them  and 
made  them  take  back  their  plunder  or  caused  them 
234 


f,  MASSACHUSETTS  BAY 


Myths  and  Legends 

designs.     Many  a  ship  was  deserted  at  the  hou 
sailing  because  she  boded  evil  of  the  voyage.     She 
was   of   medium   height,  big-headed,  tangle-haired, 
long-nosed,  and   had   a   searching   black   eye.     The 
sticks  that  she  carried  were   cut  from  a  haze) 
hung  athwart  a  brook  where  an  unwedded  m 
had  drowned  her  child.      A  girl  who  went  to 
for  news  of  her  lover  lost  her  reason  when  the  witch, 
moved  by  a  malignant  impulse,  described  his  death 
in  a  fiercely  dramatic  manner.     One  day  the  missing 
ship  came  bowling  into  port,  and  the  shock  of  joy 
that  the  girl  experienced  when  the  sailor  clasped 
her  in  his  arms  restored  her  erring  senses.      When 
Moll   Pitcher  died  she  was  attended  by  the  little 
daughter  of  the  woman  she  had  so  afflicted. 

John,  or  Edward,  Dimond,  grandfather  of   IV 
Pitcher,  was  a  benevolent  wizard.     When  vc 
were  trying  to  enter  the  port  of  Marblehead  in  a 
heavy  gale  or  at  night,  their  crews  were  startled  to 
hear  a  trumpet  voice  pealing  from  the  skies,  plainly 
audible  above  the  howling  and  hissing  of  any  tem- 
pest, telling  them  how  to  lay  their  course  so  as  to 
reach  smooth  water.    This  was  the  voice  of  Dimond, 
speaking  from  his  station,  miles  away  in  the  village 
cemetery.      He  always    repaired    to  this   place  in 
troublous  weather  and  shouted  orders  to  the  si 
that  were  made  visible  to  him  by  mystic  pow 
he   strode  to  and    fro  among    the   graves.     V 
thieves  came  to  him  for  advice  he  charmed  them  and 

made  them  t*ta  MwMbfHWlV  or  caused  them 
134 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

to  tramp  helplessly  about  the  streets  bearing  heavy 
burdens. 

"  Old  Mammy  Redd,  of  Marblehead, 

Sweet  milk  could  turn  to  mould  in  churn." 

Being  a  witch,  and  a  notorious  one,  she  could 
likewise  curdle  the  milk  as  it  came  from  the  cow, 
and  afterward  transform  it  into  blue  wool.  She  had 
the  evil  eye,  and,  if  she  willed,  her  glance  or  touch 
could  blight  like  palsy.  It  only  needed  that  she 
should  wish  a  bloody  cleaver  to  be  found  in  a  cradle 
to  cause  the  little  occupant  to  die,  while  the  whole 
town  ascribed  to  her  the  annoyances  of  daily  house- 
work and  business.  Her  unpleasant  celebrity  led  to 
her  death  at  the  hands  of  her  fellow-citizens  who 
had  been  «'  worrited"  by  no  end  of  queer  happen- 
ings :  ships  had  appeared  just  before  they  were 
wrecked  and  had  vanished  while  people  looked  at 
them ;  men  were  seen  walking  on  the  water  after 
they  had  been  comfortably  buried ;  the  wind  was 
heard  to  name  the  sailors  doomed  never  to  return ; 
footsteps  and  voices  were  heard  in  the  streets  before 
the  great  were  to  die ;  one  man  was  chased  by  a 
corpse  in  its  coffin ;  another  was  pursued  by  the 
devil  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  white  horses ;  a 
young  woman  who  had  just  received  a  present  of 
some  fine  fish  from  her  lover  was  amazed  to  see  him 
melt  into  the  air,  and  was  heart-broken  when  she 
learned  next  morning  that  he  had  died  at  sea.  So 
far  away  as  Amesbury  the  devil's  power  was  shown 
235 


Myths  and  Legends 

by  the  appearance  of  a  man  who  walked  the  roads 
carrying  his  head  under  his  arm,  and  by  the  freak 
of  a  windmill  that  the  miller  always  used  to  shut  up  at 
sundown  but  that  started  by  itself  at  midnight.  Evi- 
dently it  was  high  time  to  be  rid  of  Mammy  Redd. 

Margaret  Wesson,  "  old  Meg,"  lived  in  Glouces- 
ter until  she  came  to  her  death  by  a  shot  fired  at  the 
siege  of  Louisburg,  five  hundred  miles  away,  in 
1745.  Two  soldiers  of  Gloucester,  while  before 
the  walls  of  the  French  town,  were  annoyed  by  a 
crow,  that  flew  over  and  around  them,  cawing 
harshly  and  disregarding  stones  and  shot,  until  it 
occurred  to  them  that  the  bird  could  be  no  other 
than  old  Meg  in  another  form,  and,  as  silver  bullets 
are  an  esteemed  antidote  for  the  evils  of  witchcraft, 
they  cut  two  silver  buttons  from  their  uniforms  and 
fired  them  at  the  crow.  At  the  first  shot  its  leg  was 
broken  ;  at  the  second,  it  fell  dead.  On  returning  to 
Gloucester  they  learned  that  old  Meg  had  fallen  and 
broken  her  leg  at  the  moment  when  the  crow  was 
fired  on,  and  that  she  died  quickly  after.  An  exam- 
ination of  her  body  was  made,  and  the  identical 
buttons  were  extracted  from  her  flesh  that  had  been 
shot  into  the  crow  at  Louisburg. 

As  a  citizen  of  New  Haven  was  riding  home — 
this  was  at  the  time  of  the  goings  on  at  Salem — he 
saw  shapes  of  women  near  his  horse's  head,  whisper- 
ing earnestly  together  and  keeping  time  with  the 
trot  of  his  animal  without  effort  of  their  own.  "  In 
the  name  of  God,  tell  me  who  you  are,"  cried  the 
236 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

traveller,  and  at  the  name  of  God  they  vanished. 
Next  day  the  man's  orchard  was  shaken  by  viewless 
hands  and  the  fruit  thrown  down.  Hogs  ran  about 
the  neighborhood  on  their  hind  legs ;  children  cried 
that  somebody  was  sticking  pins  into  them ;  one 
man  would  roll  across  the  floor  as  if  pushed,  and  he 
had  to  be  watched  lest  he  should  go  into  the  fire ; 
when  housewives  made  their  bread  they  found  it  as 
full  of  hair  as  food  in  a  city  boarding-house ;  when 
they  made  soft  soap  it  ran  from  the  kettle  and  over 
the  floor  like  lava ;  stones  fell  down  chimneys  and 
smashed  crockery.  One  of  the  farmers  cut  off  an 
ear  from  a  pig  that  was  walking  on  its  hind  legs,  and 
an  eccentric  old  body  of  the  neighborhood  appeared 
presently  with  one  of  her  ears  in  a  muffle,  thus 
satisfying  that  community  that  she  had  caused  the 
troubles.  When  a  woman  was  making  potash  it 
began  to  leap  about,  and  a  rifle  was  fired  into  the 
pot,  causing  a  sudden  calm.  In  the  morning  the 
witch  was  found  dead  on  her  floor.  Yet  killing 
only  made  her  worse,  for  she  moved  to  a  deserted 
house  near  her  own,  and  there  kept  a  mad  revel 
every  night ;  fiddles  were  heard,  lights  flashed, 
stones  were  thrown,  and  yells  gave  people  at  a  dis- 
tance a  series  of  cold  shivers ;  but  the  populace  tried 
the  effect  of  tearing  down  the  house,  and  quiet  was 
brought  to  the  town. 

In  the  early  days  of  this  century  a   skinny   old 
woman  known  as  Aunt  Woodward  lived  by  herself 
in  a  log  cabin  at  Minot  Corner,  Maine,  enjoying 
237 


Myths  and  Legends 

the  awe  of  the  people  in  that  secluded  burg.  They 
moved  around  but  little  at  night,  on  her  account, 
and  one  poor  girl  was  in  mortal  fear  lest  by  mys- 
terious arts  she  should  be  changed,  between  two 
days,  into  a  white  horse.  One  citizen  kept  her 
away  from  his  house  by  nailing  a  horseshoe  to  his 
door,  while  another  took  the  force  out  of  her  spells  by 
keeping  a  branch  of  "round  wood"  at  his  threshold. 
At  night  she  haunted  a  big,  square  house  where  the 
ghost  of  a  murdered  infant  was  often  heard  to  cry, 
and  by  day  she  laid  charms  on  her  neighbors'  pro- 
visions and  utensils,  and  turned  their  cream  to  butter- 
milk. "  Uncle"  Blaisdell  hurried  into  the  settlement 
to  tell  the  farmers  that  Aunt  Woodward  had  climbed 
into  his  sled  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  that  his 
four  yoke  of  oxen  could  not  stir  it  an  inch,  but  that 
after  she  had  leaped  down  one  yoke  of  cattle  drew 
the  load  of  wood  without  an  effort.  Yet  she  died 
in  her  bed. 

THE   GLOUCESTER   LEAGUERS 

STRANGE  things  had  been  reported  in  Glouces- 
ter.    On  the  eve  of   King  Philip's  War  the 
march  of  men  was  heard  in  its  streets  and  an  Indian 
bow  and  scalp  were  seen  on  the  face  of  the  moon, 
while  the  boom  of  cannon  and  roll  of  drums  were 
heard   at   Maiden   and    the  windows   of   Plymouth 
rattled  to  the  passage  of  unseen  horsemen.     But  the 
strangest  thing  was  the  arrival  on  Cape  Ann  of  a 
238 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

force  of  French  and  Indians  that  never  could  be 
caught,  killed,  or  crippled,  though  two  regiments 
were  hurried  into  Gloucester  and  battled  with  them 
for  a  fortnight.  Thus,  the  rumor  went  around  that 
these  were  not  an  enemy  of  flesh  and  blood,  but 
devils  who  hoped  to  work  a  moral  perversion  of  the 
colony.  From  1692,  when  they  appeared,  until 
Salem  witchcraft  was  at  an  end,  Cape  Ann  was 
under  military  and  spiritual  guard  against  "  the 
spectre  leaguers." 

Another  version  of  the  episode,  based  on  sworn 
evidence,  has  it  that  Ebenezer  Babson,  returning 
late  on  a  summer  night,  saw  two  men  run  from  his 
door  and  vanish  in  a  field.  His  family  denied  that 
visitors  had  called,  so  he  gave  chase,  for  he  believed 
the  men  to  have  a  mischievous  intention.  As  he 
left  the  threshold  they  sprang  from  behind  a  log, 
one  saying  to  the  other,  "  The  master  of  the  house 
is  now  come,  else  we  might  have  taken  the  house," 
and  again  they  disappeared  in  a  swamp.  Babson 
woke  the  guard,  and  on  entering  the  quarters  of  the 
garrison  the  sound  of  many  feet  was  heard  without, 
but  when  the  doors  were  flung  open  only  the  two 
men  were  visible  and  they  were  retreating.  Next 
evening  the  yeoman  was  chased  by  these  elusive 
gentry,  who  were  believed  to  be  scouts  of  the 
enemy,  for  they  wore  white  breeches  and  waist- 
coats and  carried  bright  guns. 

For  several  nights  they  appeared,  and  on  the  1 4th 
of  July  half  a  dozen  of  them  were  seen  so  plainly 


Myths  and  Legends 

that  the  soldiers  made  a  sally,  Babson  bringing  three 
of  "  ye  unaccountable  troublers"  to  the  ground  with 
a  single  shot,  and  getting  a  response  in  kind,  for  a 
bullet  hissed  by  his  ear  and  buried  itself  in  a  tree. 
When  the  company  approached  the  place  where  lay 
the  victims  of  that  remarkable  shot,  behold,  they 
arose  and  scampered  away  as  blithely  as  if  naught 
had  happened  to  them.  One  of  the  trio  was  cor- 
nered and  shot  anew,  but  when  they  would  pick 
him  up  he  melted  into  air.  There  was  fierce  jab- 
bering in  an  unknown  tongue,  through  all  the  swamp, 
and  by  the  time  the  garrison  had  returned  the  fellows 
were  skulking  in  the  shrubbery  again.  Richard 
Dolliver  afterward  came  on  eleven  of  them  engaged  in 
incantations  and  scattered  them  with  a  gunshot,  but 
they  would  not  down.  They  lurked  about  the  cape 
until  terror  fell  on  all  the  people,  remaining  for 
"  the  best  part  of  a  month  together,"  so  it  was 
deemed  that  "  Satan  had  set  ambushments  against 
the  good  people  of  Gloucester,  with  demons  in  the 
shape  of  armed  Indians  and  Frenchmen." 

Stones  were  thrown,  barns  were  beaten  with 
clubs,  the  marching  of  unseen  hosts  was  heard  after 
dark,  the  mockers  grew  so  bold  that  they  ventured 
close  to  the  redoubtable  Babson,  gazed  scornfully 
down  the  barrel  of  his  gun,  and  laid  a  charm  on  the 
weapon,  so  that,  no  matter  how  often  he  snapped  it 
at  them,  it  flashed  in  the  pan.  Neighboring  garri- 
sons were  summoned,  but  all  battling  with  goblins 
was  fruitless.  One  night  a  dark  and  hostile  throng 
240 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

emerged  from  the  wood  and  moved  toward  the  block- 
house, where  twenty  musketeers  were  keeping  guard. 
"  If  you  be  ghosts  or  devils  I  will  foil  you,"  cried 
the  captain,  and  tearing  a  silver  button  from  his 
doublet  he  rammed  it  into  his  gun  and  fired  on  the 
advancing  host.  Even  as  the  smoke  of  his  musket 
was  blown  on  the  wind,  so  did  the  beleaguering 
army  vanish,  the  silver  bullet  proving  that  they  were 
not  of  human  kind.  The  night  was  wearing  on 
when  a  cry  went  out  that  the  devils  were  coming 
again.  Arms  were  laid  aside  this  time,  and  the 
watchers  sank  to  their  knees  in  prayer.  Directly 
that  the  name  of  God  was  uttered  the  marching 
ceased  and  heaven  rang  with  the  howls  of  the 
angry  fiends.  Never  again  were  leaguers  seen  in 
Gloucester. 

SATAN  AND  HIS  BURIAL-PLACE 

SATAN  appears  to  have  troubled  the  early  settlers 
in  America  almost  as  grievously  as  he  did  the 
German  students.  He  came  in  many  shapes  to  many 
people,  and  sometimes  he  met  his  match.  Did  he 
not  try  to  stop  old  Peter  Stuyvesant  from  rowing 
through  Hell  Gate  one  moonlight  night,  and  did  not 
that  tough  old  soldier  put  something  at  his  shoulder 
that  Satan  thought  must  be  his  wooden  leg  ?  But  it 
wasn't  a  leg  :  it  was  a  gun,  loaded  with  a  silver  bullet 
that  had  been  charged  home  with  prayer.  Peter 
fired  and  the  missile  whistled  off  to  Ward's  Island, 
16  241 


Myths  and  Legends 

where  three  boys  found  it  afterward  and  swapped  it 
for  double  handfuls  of  doughnuts  and  bulls'  eyes. 
Incidentally  it  passed  between  the  devil's  ribs  and 
the  fiend  exploded  with  a  yell  and  a  smell,  the  latter 
of  sulphur,  to  Peter's  blended  satisfaction  and  alarm. 
And  did  not  the  same  spirit  of  evil  plague  the  old 
women  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  craze  the  French 
and  Spaniards  in  the  South  ?  At  Hog  Rock,  west 
of  Milford,  Connecticut,  he  broke  up  a  pleasant 
diversion :  , 

"  Once  four  young  men  upon  ye  rock 
Sate  down  at  chuffle  board  to  play 
When  ye  Deuill  appearde  in  shape  of  a  hogg 
And  frightend  ym  so  they  scampered  away 
And  left  Old  Nick  to  finish  ye  play." 

One  of  the  first  buildings  to  be  put  up  in  Ipswich, 
Massachusetts,  was  a  church  built  on  a  ledge  above 
the  river,  and  in  that  church  Satan  tried  to  conceal 
himself  for  purposes  of  mischief.  For  this  act  he  was 
hurled  from  the  steeple-top  by  some  unseen  instru- 
ment of  righteousness  with  such  force  that  his  hoof- 
mark  was  stamped  into  a  solid  stone  near  by.  This 
did  not  deter  him  from  mounting  to  the  ridge-pole 
and  assuming  a  defiant  air,  with  folded  arms,  when 
Whitefield  began  to  preach,  but  when  that  clergy- 
man's tremendous  voice  was  loosed  below  him  he 
bounced  into  the  air  in  terror  and  disappeared. 

The  Shakers  report  that  in  the  waning  of  the 
eighteenth  century  they  chased  the  evil  one  through 
242 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

the  coverts  of  Mount  Sinai,  Massachusetts,  and  just 
before  dawn  of  a  summer  morning  they  caught  and 
killed  and  buried  him.  Shakers  are  spiritualists,  and 
they  believe  their  numbers  to  have  been  augmented 
by  distinguished  dead,  among  whom  they  already 
number  Washington,  Lafayette,  Napoleon,  Tamer- 
lane, and  Pocahontas.  The  two  first  named  of 
these  posthumous  communists  are  still  seen  by  mem- 
bers of  the  faith  who  pass  Satan's  grave  at  night, 
for  they  sit  astride  of  white  horses  and  watch  the 
burial  spot,  lest  the  enemy  of  man  arise  and  begin 
anew  his  career  of  trouble.  Some  members  of  the 
brotherhood  say  that  this  legend  typifies  a  burial  of 
evil  tendencies  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  hunted 
the  fiend,  but  it  has  passed  down  among  others  as  a 
circumstance.  The  Shakers  have  many  mystic  rec- 
ords, transmitted  verbally  to  the  present  disciples  of 
"  Mother  Ann,"  but  seldom  told  to  scoffers  "  in  the 
world,"  as  those  are  called  who  live  without  their 
pure  and  peaceful  communes.  Among  these  records 
is  that  of  the  appearance  of  John  the  Baptist  in  the 
meeting-house  at  Mount  Lebanon,  New  York,  one 
Sunday,  clothed  in  light  and  leading  the  sacred  dance 
of  the  worshippers,  by  which  they  signify  the  shaking 
out  of  all  carnal  things  from  the  heart. 


243 


Myths  and  Legends 

PETER   RUGG,  THE   MISSING   MAN 

THE  idea  of  long  wandering  as  a  penalty,  sym- 
bolized in  "The  Wandering  Jew,"  "The 
Flying  Dutchman,"  and  the  character  of  Kundry,  in 
"  Parsifal,"  has  application  in  the  legend  of  Peter 
Rugg.  This  strange  man,  who  lived  in  Middle 
Street,  Boston,  with  his  wife  and  daughter,  was 
esteemed  as  a  person  of  probity  and  good  manners 
except  in  his  swearing  fits,  for  he  was  subject  to 
outbursts  of  passion,  when  he  would  kick  his  way 
through  doors  instead  of  opening  them,  bite  ten- 
penny  nails  in  two,  and  curse  his  wig  off.  In  the 
autumn  of  1770  he  visited  Concord,  with  his  little 
girl,  and  on  the  way  home  was  overtaken  by  a 
violent  storm.  He  took  shelter  with  a  friend  at 
Menotomy,  who  urged  him  to  stay  all  night,  for  the 
rain  was  falling  heavier  every  moment ;  but  Rugg 
would  not  be  stayed,  and  seeing  that  there  was  no 
hope  of  a  dry  journey  back  to  town  he  roared  a  fear- 
ful oath  and  cried,  "  Let  the  storm  increase.  I  will 
see  home  to-night  in  spite  of  it,  or  may  I  never  see 
home  !"  With  that  he  tossed  the  child  into  the  open 
chaise,  leaped  in  after  her,  lashed  his  horse,  and  was 
off. 

Several  nights  afterward,  while  Rugg's  neighbors 
were  out  with  lanterns  trying  to  discover  the  cause 
of  a  heavy  jarring  that  had  begun  to  disturb  them  in 
bad  weather,  the  excitable  gentleman,  who  had  not 
been  seen  since  his  Concord  visit,  came  whirling 
244 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

along  the  pavement  in  his  carriage,  his  daughter 
beside  him,  his  black  horse  plunging  on  in  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  stop  him.  The  lanterns  that  for  a 
moment  twinkled  in  Peter's  face  showed  him  as  a 
wet  and  weary  man,  with  eyes  turned  up  longingly 
at  the  windows  where  his  wife  awaited  him ;  then 
he  was  gone,  and  the  ground  trembled  as  with  an 
earthquake,  while  the  rain  fell  more  heavily. 

Mrs.  Rugg  died  within  a  twelvemonth,  and  Peter 
never  reached  home,  but  from  all  parts  of  New  Eng- 
land came  stories  of  a  man  and  child  driving  rapidly 
along  the  highways,  never  stopping  except  to  inquire 
the  way  to  Boston.  Half  of  the  time  the  man  would 
be  headed  in  a  direction  opposite  to  the  one  he 
seemed  to  want  to  follow,  and  when  set  right  would 
cry  that  he  was  being  deceived,  and  was  sometimes 
heard  to  mutter,  "  No  home  to-night."  In  Hart- 
ford, Providence,  Newburyport,  and  among  the  New 
Hampshire  hills  the  anxious  face  of  the  man  became 
known,  and  he  was  referred  to  as  "  the  storm- 
breeder,"  for  so  surely  as  he  passed  there  would  be 
rain,  wind,  lightning,  thunder,  and  darkness  within 
the  hour. 

Some  years  ago  a  man  in  a  Connecticut  town 
stopped  this  hurrying  traveller,  who  said,  in  reply 
to  a  question,  "  I  have  lost  the  road  to  Boston.  My 
name  is  Peter  Rugg."  Then  Rugg's  disappearance 
half  a  century  before  was  cited  by  those  who  had 
long  memories,  and  people  began  to  look  askant  at 
Peter  and  gave  him  generous  road  room  when  they 
045 


Myths  and  Legends 

met  him.  The  toll-taker  on  Charlestown  bridge 
declared  that  he  had  been  annoyed  and  alarmed  by  a 
prodigious  tramping  of  hoofs  and  rattling  of  wheels 
that  seemed  to  pass  toward  Boston  before  his  very 
face,  yet  he  could  see  nothing.  He  took  courage 
one  night  to  plant  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 
bridge  with  a  three-legged  stool,  and  when  the  sound 
approached  he  dimly  saw  a  large  black  horse  driven 
by  a  weary  looking  man  with  a  child  beside  him. 
The  stool  was  flung  at  the  horse's  head,  but  passed 
through  the  animal  as  through  smoke  and  skipped 
across  the  floor  of  the  bridge.  Thus  much  the  toll- 
collector  said,  but  when  asked  if  Rugg  had  appeared 
again  he  made  no  reply. 

THE    LOSS  OF   WEETAMOO 

WINNEPURKIT,  sagamore  of  the  coast  set- 
tlements between  Nahant  and  Cape  Ann, 
had  married  Weetamoo,  daughter  of  Passaconaway, 
king  of  the  Pennacooks,  and  had  taken  her  to  his 
home.  Their  honeymoon  was  happy,  but  old  ties 
are  strong,  and  after  a  little  time  the  bride  felt  a 
longing  to  see  her  people  again.  When  she  made 
known  this  wish  the  husband  not  only  consented  to 
her  visit,  but  gave  her  a  guard  of  his  most  trusty 
hunters  who  saw  her  safe  in  her  father's  lodge  (near 
the  site  of  Concord,  New  Hampshire),  and  returned 
directly.  Presently  came  a  messenger  from  Passa- 
conaway, informing  his  son-in-law  that  Weetamoo 
246 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

had  finished  her  visit  and  wished  again  to  be  with  her 
husband,  to  whom  he  looked  for  an  escort  to  guide 
her  through  the  wilderness.  Winnepurkit  felt  that 
his  dignity  as  a  chief  was  slighted  by  this  last  request, 
and  he  replied  that  as  he  had  supplied  her  with  a 
guard  for  the  outward  journey  it  was  her  father's 
place  to  send  her  back,  "  for  it  stood  not  with  Win- 
nepurkit's  reputation  either  to  make  himself  or  his 
men  so  servile  as  to  fetch  her  again." 

Passaconaway  returned  a  sharp  answer  that  irri- 
tated Winnepurkit  still  more,  and  he  was  told  by  the 
young  sagamore  that  he  might  send  his  daughter  or 
keep  her,  for  she  would  never  be  sent  for.  In  this 
unhappy  strife  for  precedent,  which  has  been  re- 
peated on  later  occasions  by  princes  and  society 
persons,  the  young  wife  seemed  to  be  fated  as  an 
unwilling  sacrifice ;  but  summoning  spirit  to  leave 
her  father's  wigwam  she  launched  a  canoe  on  the 
Merrimack,  hoping  to  make  her  way  along  that 
watery  highway  to  her  husband's  domain.  It  was 
winter,  and  the  stream  was  full  of  floating  ice ;  at 
the  best  of  times  it  was  not  easy  to  keep  a  frail 
vessel  of  bark  in  the  current  away  from  the  rapids, 
and  a  wandering  hunter  reported  that  a  canoe  had 
come  down  the  river  guided  by  a  woman,  that  it 
had  swung  against  the  Amoskeag  rocks,  where  Man- 
chester stands  now,  and  a  few  moments  later  was  in 
a  quieter  reach  of  water,  broken  and  empty.  No 
more  was  seen  of  Weetamoo. 


247 


Myths  and  Legends 


THE  FATAL   FORGET-ME-NOT 


miles  out  from  the  Nahant  shore,  Mas- 
X  sachusetts,  rises  Egg  Rock,  a  dome  of  granite 
topped  by  a  light-house.  In  the  last  century  the 
forget-me-nots  that  grew  in  a  little  marsh  at  its  sum- 
mit were  much  esteemed,  for  it  was  reported  that  if 
a  girl  should  receive  one  of  these  little  flowers  from 
her  lover  the  two  would  be  faithful  to  each  other 
through  all  their  married  life.  It  was  before  a  tem- 
porary separation  that  a  certain  young  couple  strolled 
together  on  the  Nahant  cliffs.  The  man  was  to  sail 
for  Italy  next  day,  to  urge  parental  consent  to  their 
union.  As  he  looked  dreamily  into  the  sea  the  legend 
of  the  forget-me-not  came  into  his  mind,  and  in  a 
playful  tone  he  offered  to  gather  a  bunch  as  a  me- 
mento. Unthinkingly  the  girl  consented.  He  ran 
down  the  cliff  to  his  boat,  pushed  out,  and  headed 
toward  the  rock,  but  a  fisherman  shouted  that  a  gale 
was  rising  and  the  tide  was  coming  in  ;  indeed,  the 
horizon  was  whitening  and  the  rote  was  growing 
plain. 

Alice  had  heard  the  cry  of  warning  and  would 
have  called  him  back,  but  she  was  forsaken  by  the 
power  of  speech,  and  watched,  with  pale  face  and 
straining  eyes,  the  boat  beating  smartly  across  the 
surges.  It  was  seen  to  reach  Egg  Rock,  and  after  a 
lapse  came  dancing  toward  the  shore  again  ;  but  the 
tide  was  now  swirling  in  rapidly,  the  waves  were 
running  high,  and  the  wind  freshened  as  the  sun 
248 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

sank.  At  times  the  boat  was  out  of  sight  in  the 
hollowed  water,  and  as  it  neared  Nahant  it  became 
unmanageable.  Apparently  it  had  filled  with  water 
and  the  tiller-rope  had  broken.  Nothing  could  be 
done  by  the  spectators  who  had  gathered  on  the 
rocks,  except  to  shout  directions  that  were  futile, 
even  if  they  could  be  heard.  At  last  the  boat  was 
lifted  by  a  breaker  and  hurled  against  a  mass  of 
granite  at  the  very  feet  of  the  man's  mistress. 
When  the  body  was  recovered  next  day,  a  bunch 
of  forget-me-not  was  clasped  in  the  rigid  hand. 

THE   OLD   MILL  AT   SOMERVILLE 

THE  "  old  powder-house,"  as  the  round  stone 
tower  is  called  that  stands  on  a  gravel  ridge 
in  Somerville,  Massachusetts,  is  so  named  because  at 
the  outbreak  of  the  Revolutionary  War  it  was  used 
temporarily  as  a  magazine ;  but  long  before  that  it 
was  a  wind-mill.  Here  in  the  old  days  two  lovers 
held  their  tryst :  a  sturdy  and  honest  young  farmer 
of  the  neighborhood  and  the  daughter  of  a  man 
whose  wealth  puffed  him  with  purse-pride.  It  was 
the  plebeian  state  of  the  farmer  that  made  him  look 
at  him  with  an  unfavorable  countenance,  and  when 
it  was  whispered  to  him  that  the  young  people  were 
meeting  each  other  almost  every  evening  at  the  mill, 
he  resolved  to  surprise  them  there  and  humiliate,  if 
he  did  not  punish  them.  From  the  shadow  of  the 
door  they  saw  his  approach,  and,  yielding  to  the 
049 


Myths  and  Legends 

girl's  imploring,  the  lover  secreted  himself  while  she 
climbed  to  the  loft.  The  flutter  of  ;her  dress  caught 
the  old  man's  eye  and  he  hastened,  panting,  into  the 
mill.  For  some  moments  he  groped  about,  for  his 
eyes  had  not  grown  used  to  the  darkness  of  the  place, 
and  hearing  his  muttered  oaths,  the  girl  crept  back- 
ward from  the  stair. 

She  was  beginning  to  hope  that  she  had  not  been 
seen,  when  her  foot  caught  in  a  loose  board  and  she 
stumbled,  but  in  her  fall  she  threw  out  her  hand  to 
save  herself  and  found  a  rope  within  her  grasp. 
Directly  that  her  weight  had  been  applied  to  it  there 
was  a  whir  and  a  clank.  The  cord  had  set  the  groat 
fans  in  motion.  At  the  same  moment  a  fall  was 
heard,  then  a  cry,  passing  from  anger  into  anguish. 
She  rushed  down  the  stair,  the  lover  appeared  from 
his  hiding-place  at  the  same  moment,  and  together 
they  dragged  the  old  man  to  his  feet.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  the  wind  had  started  the  sails  he  had 
been  standing  on  one  of  the  mill-stones  and  the 
sudden  jerk  had  thrown  him  down.  His  arm 
caught  between  the  grinding  surfaces  and  had  been 
crushed  to  pulp.  He  was  carried  home  and  ten- 
derly nursed,  but  he  did  not  live  long ;  yet  before 
he  died  he  was  made  to  see  the  folly  of  his  course, 
and  he  consented  to  the  marriage  that  it  had  cost 
him  so  dear  to  try  to  prevent.  Before  she  could 
summon  heart  to  fix  the  wedding-day  the  girl  passed 
many  months  of  grief  and  repentance,  and  for  the 
rest  of  her  life  she  avoided  the  old  mill.  There 
250 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

was  good  reason  for  doing  so,  people  said,  for  on 
windy  nights  the  spirit  of  the  old  man  used  to  haunt 
the  place,  using  such  profanity  that  it  became  visible 
in  the  form  of  blue  lights,  dancing  and  exploding 
about  the  building. 

EDWARD   RANDOLPH'S   PORTRAIT 

"TVTOTHING  is  left  of  Province  House,  the 
J.  i|  old  home  of  the  royal  governors,  in  Boston, 
but  the  gilded  Indian  that  served  as  its  weather- 
cock and  aimed  his  arrow  at  the  winds  from  the  cu- 
pola. The  house  itself  was  swept  away  long  ago  in 
the  so-called  march  of  improvement.  In  one  of 
its  rooms  hung  a  picture  so  dark  that  when  Lieu- 
tenant-Governor  Hutchinson  went  to  live  there 
hardly  anybody  could  say  what  it  represented. 
There  were  hints  that  it  was  a  portrait  of  the 
devil,  painted  at  a  witch-meeting  near  Salem,  and 
that  on  the  eve  of  disasters  in  the  province  a  dread- 
ful face  had  glared  from  the  canvas.  Shirley  had 
seen  it  on  the  night  of  the  fall  of  Ticonderoga,  and 
servants  had  gone  shuddering  from  the  room,  cer- 
tain that  they  had  caught  the  glance  of  a  malignant 
eye. 

It  was  known  to  the  governors,  however,  that  the 
portrait,  if  not  that  of  the  arch  fiend,  was  that  of 
one  who  in  the  popular  mind  was  none  the  less  a 
devil :  Edward  Randolph,  the  traitor,  who  had  re- 
pealed the  first  provincial  charter  and  deprived  the 
251 


Myths  and  Legends 

colonists  of  their  liberties.  Under  the  curse  of  the 
people  he  grew  pale  and  pinched  and  ugly,  his  face 
at  last  becoming  so  hateful  that  men  were  unwilling 
to  look  at  it.  Then  it  was  that  he  sat  for  his  por- 
trait. Threescore  or  odd  years  afterward,  Hutch- 
inson  sat  in  the  hall  wondering  vaguely  if  coming 
events  would  consign  him  to  the  obloquy  that  had 
fallen  on  his  predecessor,  for  at  his  bidding  a  fleet 
had  come  into  the  harbor  with  three  regiments  of 
red  coats  on  board,  despatched  from  Halifax  to  over- 
awe the  city.  The  coming  of  the  selectmen  to  pro- 
test against  quartering  these  troops  on  the  people  and 
the  substitution  of  martial  for  civic  law,  interrupted 
his  reverie,  and  a  warm  debate  arose.  At  last  the 
governor  seized  his  pen  impatiently,  and  cried,  "  The 
king  is  my  master  and  England  is  my  home.  Upheld 
by  them,  I  defy  the  rabble." 

He  was  about  to  sign  the  order  for  bringing  in 
the  troops  when  a  curtain  that  had  hung  before  the 
picture  was  drawn  aside.  Hutchinson  stared  at  the 
canvas  in  amazement,  then  muttered,  "  It  is  Ran- 
dolph's spirit !  It  wears  the  look  of  hell."  The 
picture  was  seen  to  be  that  of  a  man  in  antique 
garb,  with  a  despairing,  hunted,  yet  evil  expression 
in  the  face,  and  seemed  to  stare  at  Hutchinson. 

"  It  is  a  warning,"  said  one  of  the  company. 

Hutchinson  recovered  himself  with  an  effort  and 
turned  away.  "  It  is  a  trick,"  he  cried  ;  and  bend- 
ing over  the  paper  he  fixed  his  name,  as  if  in  des- 
perate haste.  Then  he  trembled,  turned  white,  and 
252 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

wiped  a  sweat  from  his  brow.  The  selectmen  de- 
parted in  silence  but  in  anger,  and  those  who  saw 
Hutchinson  on  the  streets  next  day  affirmed  that  the 
portrait  had  stepped  out  of  its  canvas  and  stood  at 
his  side  through  the  night.  Afterward,  as  he  lay  on 
his  death-bed,  he  cried  that  the  blood  of  the  Boston 
massacre  was  filling  his  throat,  and  as  his  soul  passed 
from  him  his  face,  in  its  agony  and  rage,  was  the  face 
of  Edward  Randolph. 

LADY   ELEANORE'S    MANTLE 

LADY  ELEANORE  ROCHCLIFFE,  being 
orphaned,  was  admitted  to  the  family  of  her 
distant  relative,  Governor  Shute,  of  Massachusetts 
Bay,  and  came  to  America  to  take  her  home  with 
him.  She  arrived  at  the  gates  of  Province  House, 
in  Boston,  in  the  governor's  splendid  coach,  with 
outriders  and  guards,  and  as  the  governor  went  to 
receive  her,  a  pale  young  man,  with  tangled  hair, 
sprang  from  the  crowd  and  fell  in  the  dust  at  her 
feet,  offering  himself  as  a  footstool  for  her  to  tread 
upon.  Her  proud  face  lighted  with  a  smile  of  scorn, 
and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  stay  the  governor,  who 
was  in  the  act  of  striking  the  fellow  with  his  cane. 

"  Do  not  strike  him,"  she  said.  "  When  men 
seek  to  be  trampled,  it  is  a  favor  they  deserve." 

For  a  moment  she  bore  her  weight  on  the  pros- 
trate form,  "emblem  of  aristocracy  trampling  on 
human  sympathies  and  the  kindred  of  nature,"  and 
153 


Myths  and  Legends 

as  she  stood  there  the  bell  on  South  Church  began 
to  toll  for  a  funeral  that  was  passing  at  the  moment. 
The  crowd  started ;  some  looked  annoyed ;  Lady 
Eleanore  remained  calm  and  walked  in  stately 
fashion  up  the  passage  on  the  arm  of  His  Excel- 
lency. "  Who  was  that  insolent  fellow  ?"  was 
asked  of  Dr.  Clarke,  the  governor's  physician. 

"  Gervase  Helwyse,"  replied  the  doctor  ;  "  a  youth 
of  no  fortune,  but  of  good  mind  until  he  met  this 
lady  in  London,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  her,  and 
her  pride  and  scorn  have  crazed  him." 

A  few  nights  after  a  ball  was  given  in  honor  of 
the  governor's  ward,  and  Province  House  was  filled 
with  the  elect  of  the  city.  Commanding  in  figure, 
beautiful  in  face,  richly  dressed  and  jewelled,  the 
Lady  Eleanore  was  the  admired  of  the  whole  assem- 
bly, and  the  women  were  especially  curious  to  see 
her  mantle,  for  a  rumor  went  out  that  it  had  been 
made  by  a  dying  girl,  and  had  the  magic  power  of 
giving  new  beauty  to  the  wearer  every  time  it  was 
put  on.  While  the  guests  were  taking  refreshment, 
a  young  man  stole  into  the  room  with  a  silver  gob- 
let, and  this  he  offered  on  his  knee  to  Lady  Eleanore. 
As  she  looked  down  she  recognized  the  face  of 
Helwyse. 

"  Drink  of  this  sacramental  wine,"  he  said,  eagerly, 
"  and  pass  it  among  the  guests." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  poisoned,"  whispered  a  man,  and 
in  another  moment  the  liquor  was  overturned,  and 
Helwyse  was  roughly  dragged  away. 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

"  Pray,  gentlemen,  do  not  hurt  my  poor  admirer," 
said  the  lady,  in  a  tone  of  languor  and  condescension 
that  was  unusual  to  her.  Breaking  from  his  cap- 
tives, Helwyse  ran  back  and  begged  her  to  cast  her 
mantle  into  the  fire.  She  replied  by  throwing  a  fold 
of  it  above  her  head  and  smiling  as  she  said,  "  Fare- 
well. Remember  me  as  you  see  me  now." 

Helwyse  shook  his  head  sadly  and  submitted  to 
be  led  away.  The  weariness  in  Eleanore's  manner 
increased ;  a  flush  was  burning  on  her  cheek ;  her 
laugh  had  grown  infrequent.  Dr.  Clarke  whis- 
pered something  in  the  governor's  ear  that  made  that 
gentleman  start  and  look  alarmed.  It  was  announced 
that  an  unforeseen  circumstance  made  it  necessary 
to  close  the  festival  at  once,  and  the  company  went 
home.  A  few  days  after  the  city  was  thrown  into 
a  panic  by  an  outbreak  of  small-pox,  a  disease  that 
in  those  times  could  not  be  prevented  nor  often 
cured,  and  that  gathered  its  victims  by  thousands. 
Graves  were  dug  in  rows,  and  every  night  the  earth 
was  piled  hastily  on  fresh  corpses.  Before  all  in- 
fected houses  hung  a  red  flag  of  warning,  and 
Province  House  was  the  first  to  show  it,  for  the 
plague  had  come  to  town  in  Lady  Eleanore's  man- 
tle. The  people  cursed  her  pride  and  pointed  to 
the  flags  as  her  triumphal  banners.  The  pestilence 
was  at  its  height  when  Gervase  Helwyse  appeared 
in  Province  House.  There  were  none  to  stay  him 
now,  and  he  climbed  the  stairs,  peering  from  room  to 
room,  until  he  entered  a  darkened  chamber,  where 


Myths  and  Legends 

something  stirred  feebly  under  a  silken  coverlet  and 
a  faint  voice  begged  for  water.  Helwyse  tore  apart 
the  curtains  and  exclaimed,  "  Fie  !  What  does  such 
a  thing  as  you  in  Lady  Eleanore's  apartment  ?" 

The  figure  on  the  bed  tried  to  hide  its  hideous 
face.  "  Do  not  look  on  me,"  it  cried.  "  I  am 
cursed  for  my  pride  that  I  wrapped  about  me  as  a 
mantle.  You  are  avenged.  I  am  Eleanore  Roch- 
cliffe." 

The  lunatic  stared  for  a  moment,  then  the  house 
echoed  with  his  laughter.  The  deadly  mantle  lay 
on  a  chair.  He  snatched  it  up,  and  waving  also  the 
red  flag  of  the  pestilence  ran  into  the  street.  In  a 
short  time  an  effigy  wrapped  in  the  mantle  was 
borne  to  Province  House  and  set  on  fire  by  a  mob. 
From  that  hour  the  pest  abated  and  soon  disap- 
peared, though  graves  and  scars  made  a  bitter  mem- 
ory of  it  for  many  a  year.  Unhappiest  of  all  was 
the  disfigured  creature  who  wandered  amid  the 
shadows  of  Province  House,  never  showing  her  face, 
unloved,  avoided,  lonely. 

HOWE'S    MASQUERADE 

DURING  the  siege  of  Boston  Sir  William  Howe 
undertook  to  show  his  contempt  for  the  raw 
fellows  who  were  disrespectfully  tossing  cannon-balls 
at  him  from  the  batteries  in  Cambridge  and  South 
Boston,  by  giving  a  masquerade.  It  was  a  brilliant 
affair,  the  belles  and  blades  of  the  loyalist  set  being 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

present,  some  in  the  garb  of  their  ancestors,  for  the 
past  is  ever  more  picturesque  than  the  present,  and 
a  few  roisterers  caricaturing  the  American  generals 
in  ragged  clothes,  false  noses,  and  absurd  wigs.  At 
the  height  of  the  merriment  a  sound  of  a  dirge 
echoing  through  the  streets  caused  the  dance  to 
stop.  The  funeral  music  paused  before  the  doors 
of  Province  House,  where  the  dance  was  going  on, 
and  they  were  flung  open.  Muffled  drums  marked 
time  for  a  company  that  began  to  file  down  the  great 
stair  from  the  floor  above  the  ball-room  :  dark  men 
in  steeple-hats  and  pointed  beards,  with  Bibles, 
swords,  and  scrolls,  who  looked  sternly  at  the  guests 
and  descended  to  the  street. 

Colonel  Joliffe,  a  Whig,  whose  age  and  infirmity 
had  prevented  him  from  joining  Washington,  and 
whose  courtesy  and  intelligence  had  made  him  re- 
spected by  his  foes,  acted  as  chorus :  "  These  I  take 
to  be  the  Puritan  governors  of  Massachusetts  :  Endi- 
cott,  Winthrop,  Vane,  Dudley,  Haynes,  Bellingham, 
Leverett,  Bradstreet."  Then  came  a  rude  soldier, 
mailed,  begirt  with  arms :  the  tyrant  Andros ;  a 
brown-faced  man  with  a  sailor's  gait :  Sir  William 
Phipps  ;  a  courtier  wigged  and  jewelled  :  Earl  Bel- 
lomont ;  the  crafty,  well-mannered  Dudley ;  the 
twinkling,  red-nosed  Shute  ;  the  ponderous  Burnet ; 
the  gouty  Belcher ;  Shirley,  Pownall,  Bernard,  Hutch- 
inson ;  then  a  soldier,  whose  cocked  hat  he  held 
before  his  face.  "  'Tis  the  shape  of  Gage  !"  cried  an 
officer,  turning  pale.  The  lights  were  dull  and  an  un- 
17  257 


Myths  and  Legends 

comfortable  silence  had  fallen  on  the  company.  Last, 
came  a  tall  man  muffled  in  a  military  cloak,  and  as 
he  paused  on  the  landing  the  guests  looked  from  him 
to  their  host  in  amazement,  for  it  was  the  figure  of 
Howe  himself.  The  governor's  patience  was  at  an 
end,  for  this  was  a  part  of  the  masquerade  that  had 
not  been  looked  for.  He  fiercely  cried  to  Joliffe, 
"  There  is  a  plot  in  this.  Your  head  has  stood  too 
long  on  a  traitor's  shoulders." 

"  Make  haste  to  cut  it  off,  then,"  was  the  reply, 
"  for  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe  and  of  the 
king,  his  master,  is  at  an  end.  These  shadows  are 
mourners  at  his  funeral.  Look  !  The  last  of  the 
governors." 

Howe  rushed  with  drawn  sword  on  the  figure  of 
himself,  when  it  turned  and  looked  at  him.  The 
blade  clanged  to  the  floor  and  Howe  fell  back  with 
a  gasp  of  horror,  for  the  face  was  his  own.  Hand 
nor  voice  was  raised  to  stay  the  double-goer  as  it 
mournfully  passed  on.  At  the  threshold  it  stamped 
its  foot  and  shook  its  fists  in  air ;  then  the  door 
closed.  Mingled  with  the  strains  of  the  funeral 
march,  as  it  died  along  the  empty  streets,  came  the 
tolling  of  the  bell  on  South  Church  steeple,  striking 
the  hour  of  midnight.  The  festivities  were  at  an 
end  and,  oppressed  by  a  nameless  fear,  the  spectators 
of  this  strange  pageant  made  ready  for  departure  ;  but 
before  they  left  the  booming  of  cannon  at  the  south- 
ward announced  that  Washington  had  advanced. 
The  glories  of  Province  House  were  over.  When 
258 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

the  last  of  the  royal  governors  left  it  he  paused  on 
the  threshold,  beat  his  foot  on  the  stone,  and  flung 
up  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  grief  and  rage. 

OLD   ESTHER   DUDLEY 

BOSTON  had  surrendered.  Washington  was 
advancing  from  the  heights  where  he  had 
trained  his  guns  on  the  British  works,  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe  lingered  at  the  door  of  Province  House, 
— last  of  the  royal  governors  who  would  stand  there, 
— and  cursed  and  waved  his  hands  and  beat  his  heel 
on  the  step,  as  if  he  were  crushing  rebellion  by  that 
act.  The  sound  brought  an  old  woman  to  his  side. 
"  Esther  Dudley  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Why  are  you 
not  gone  ?" 

"  I  shall  never  leave.  As  housekeeper  for  the 
governors  and  pensioner  of  the  king,  this  has  been 
my  home ;  the  only  home  I  know.  Go  back,  but 
send  more  troops.  I  will  keep  the  house  till  you 
return." 

"  Grant  that  I  may  return,"  he  cried.  "  Since 
you  will  stay,  take  this  bag  of  guineas  and  keep  this 
key  until  a  governor  shall  demand  it." 

Then,  with  fierce  and  moody  brow,  the  governor 
went  forth,  and  the  faded  eyes  of  Esther  Dudley  saw 
him  nevermore.  When  the  soldiers  of  the  republic 
cast  about  for  quarters  in  Boston  town,  they  spared 
the  official  mansion  to  this  old  woman.  Her  bridling 
toryism  and  assumption  of  old  state  amused  them 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  did  no  harm ;  indeed,  her  loyalty  was  half  ad- 
mired ;  beside,  nobody  took  the  pride  in  the  place 
that  she  did,  or  would  keep  it  in  better  order.  That 
she  sometimes  had  a  half-dozen  of  unrepentant  codgers 
in  to  dinner,  and  that  they  were  suspected  of  drink- 
ing healths  to  George  III.  in  crusted  port,  was  a  fact 
to  blink.  Rumor  had  it  that  not  all  her  guests  were 
flesh  and  blood,  but  that  she  had  an  antique  mirror 
across  which  ancient  occupants  of  the  house  would 
pass  in  shadowy  procession  at  her  command,  and 
that  she  was  wont  to  have  the  Shirleys,  Olivers, 
Hutchinsons,  and  Dudleys  out  of  their  graves  to 
hold  receptions  there ;  so  a  touch  of  dread  may 
have  mingled  in  the  feeling  that  kept  the  populace 
aloof. 

Living  thus  by  herself,  refusing  to  hear  of  rebel 
victories,  construing  the  bonfires,  drumming,  hur- 
rahs, and  bell-ringing  to  signify  fresh  triumphs  for 
England,  she  drifted  farther  and  farther  out  of  her 
time  and  existed  in  the  shadows  of  the  past.  She 
lighted  the  windows  for  the  king's  birthday,  and 
often  from  the  cupola  watched  for  a  British  fleet, 
heeding  not  the  people  below,  who,  as  they  saw  her 
withered  face,  repeated  the  prophecy,  with  a  laugh  : 
"  When  the  golden  Indian  on  Province  House  shall 
shoot  his  arrow  and  the  cock  on  South  Church  spire 
shall  crow,  look  for  a  royal  governor  again."  So, 
when  it  was  bandied  about  the  streets  that  the  gov- 
ernor was  coming,  she  took  it  in  no  wise  strange, 
but  dressed  herself  in  silk  and  hoops,  with  store  of 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

ancient  jewels,  and  made  ready  to  receive  him.  In 
truth,  there  was  a  function,  for  already  a  man  of 
stately  mien,  and  richly  dressed,  was  advancing 
through  the  court,  with  a  staff  of  men  in  wigs  and 
laced  coats  behind  him,  and  a  company  of  troops  at 
a  little  distance.  Esther  Dudley  flung  the  door  wide 
and  dropping  on  her  knees  held  forth  the  key  with 
the  cry,  "  Thank  heaven  for  this  hour !  God  save 
the  king  !" 

The  governor  put  off  his  hat  and  helped  the 
woman  to  her  feet.  "  A  strange  prayer,"  said  he  ; 
"  yet  we  will  echo  it  to  this  effect :  For  the  good  of 
the  realm  that  still  owns  him  to  be  its  ruler,  God 
save  King  George." 

Esther  Dudley  stared  wildly.  That  face  she  re- 
membered now, — the  proscribed  rebel,  John  Han- 
cock ;  governor,  not  by  royal  grant,  but  by  the 
people's  will. 

"  Have  I  welcomed  a  traitor  ?    Then  let  me  die." 

"  Alas  !  Mistress  Dudley,  the  world  has  changed 
for  you  in  these  later  years.  America  has  no  king." 
He  offered  her  his  arm,  and  she  clung  to  it  for  a 
moment,  then,  sinking  down,  the  great  key,  that 
she  so  long  had  treasured,  clanked  to  the  floor. 

"  I  have  been  faithful  unto  death,"  she  gasped. 
"  God  save  the  king  !" 

The  people  uncovered,  for  she  was  dead. 

"  At   her  tomb,"    said    Hancock,  "  we  will  bid 
farewell  forever  to  the  past.     A  new  day  has  come 
for  us.     In  its  broad  light  we  will  press  onward." 
261 


Myths  and  Legends 

THE   LOSS   OF  JACOB   HURD 

JACOB  HURD,  stern  witch-harrier  of  Ipswich, 
can  abide  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  course 
of  things,  whether  it  be  flight  on  a  broomstick  or 
the  wrong  adding  of  figures ;  so  his  son  gives  him 
trouble,  for  he  is  an  imaginative  boy,  who  walks 
alone,  talking  to  the  birds,  making  rhymes,  picking 
flowers,  and  dreaming.  That  he  will  never  be  a 
farmer,  mechanic,  or  tradesman  is  as  good  as  certain, 
and  one  day  when  the  child  runs  in  with  a  story  of 
a  golden  horse,  with  tail  and  mane  of  silver,  on 
which  he  has  ridden  over  land  and  sea,  climbing 
mountains  and  swimming  rivers,  he  turns  pale  with 
fright  lest  the  boy  be  bewitched  ;  then,  as  the  awful- 
ness  of  the  invention  becomes  manifest,  he  cries, 
"  Thou  knowest  thou  art  lying,"  and  strikes  the 
little  fellow. 

The  boy  staggers  into  his  mother's  arms,  and  that 
night  falls  into  a  fever,  in  which  he  raves  of  his  horse 
and  the  places  he  will  see,  while  Jacob  sits  by  his 
side,  too  sore  in  heart  for  words,  and  he  never  leaves 
the  cot  for  food  or  sleep  till  the  fever  is  burned  out. 
Just  before  he  closes  his  eyes  the  child  looks  about 
him  and  says  that  he  hears  the  horse  pawing  in  the 
road,  and,  either  for  dust  or  cloud  or  sun  gleam,  it 
seems  for  an  instant  as  if  the  horse  were  there.  The 
boy  gives  a  cry  of  joy,  then  sinks  upon  his  pillow, 
lifeless. 

Some  time  after  this  Jacob  sets  off  one  morning, 
262 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

while  the  stars  are  out,  to  see  three  witches  hanged, 
but  at  evening  his  horse  comes  flying  up  the  road, 
splashed  with  blood  and  foam,  and  the  neighbors 
know  from  that  of  Jacob's  death,  for  he  is  lying  by  the 
wayside  with  an  Indian  arrow  in  his  heart  and  an  axe- 
mark  on  his  head.  The  wife  runs  to  the  door,  and, 
though  she  shakes  with  fear  at  its  approach,  she  sees 
that  in  the  sunset  glow  the  horse's  sides  have  a  shine 
like  gold,  and  its  mane  and  tail  are  silver  white. 
Now  the  animal  is  before  the  house,  but  the  woman 
does  not  faint  or  cry  at  the  blood  splash  on  the  sad- 
dle, for — is  it  the  dust-cloud  that  takes  that  shape  ? — 
she  sees  on  its  back  a  boy  with  a  shining  face,  who 
throws  a  kiss  at  her, — her  Paul.  He,  little  poet, 
lives  in  spirit,  and  has  found  happiness. 

THE   HOBOMAK 

SUCH  was  the  Indian  name  of  the  site  of  West- 
boro,  Massachusetts,  and  the  neighboring  pond 
was  Hochomocko.  The  camp  of  the  red  men  near 
the  shore  was  full  of  bustle  one  day,  for  their  belle, 
lano,  was  to  marry  the  young  chief,  Sassacus.  The 
feast  was  spread  and  all  were  ready  to  partake  of  it, 
when  it  was  found  that  the  bride  was  missing.  One 
girl  had  seen  her  steal  into  the  wood  with  a  roguish 
smile  on  her  lip,  and  knew  that  she  intended  to  play 
hide-and-seek  with  Sassacus  before  she  should  be 
proclaimed  a  wife,  but  the  day  wore  on  and  she  did 
not  come.  Among  those  who  were  late  in  reaching 
263 


Myths  and  Legends 

camp  was  Wequoash,  who  brought  a  panther  in  that 
he  had  slain  on  Boston  Hill,  and  he  bragged  about 
his  skill,  as  usual.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he 
was  a  rival  of  the  chief  for  the  hand  of  lano,  and  he 
showed  surprise  and  concern  at  her  continued  ab- 
sence. The  search  went  on  for  two  days,  and,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  the  girl's  body  was  taken  from 
the  lake. 

At  the  funeral  none  groaned  so  piteously  as  We- 
quoash. Yet  Sassacus  felt  his  loss  so  keenly  that  he 
fell  into  a  sickness  next  day,  and  none  was  found  so 
constant  in  his  ministrations  as  Wequoash ;  but  all 
to  no  avail,  for  within  a  week  Sassacus,  too,  was 
dead.  As  the  strongest  and  bravest  remaining  in 
the  tribe,  Wequoash  became  heir  to  his  honors  by 
election. 

A  year  later  he  sat  moodily  by  the  lakeside,  when 
a  flame  burst  up  from  the  water,  and  a  canoe  floated 
toward  him  that  a  mysterious  agency  impelled  him 
to  enter.  The  boat  sped  toward  the  flame,  that,  at 
his  approach,  assumed  lano's  form.  He  heard  the 
water  gurgle  as  he  passed  over  the  spot  where  the 
shape  had  glimmered,  but  there  was  no  other  sound 
or  check.  Next  year  this  thing  occurred  again,  and 
then  the  spirit  spoke  :  "  Only  once  more." 

Yet  a  third  time  his  fate  took  him  to  the  spot, 
and  as  the  hour  came  on  he  called  his  people  to 
him :  "  This,"  said  he,  "  is  my  death-day.  I  have 
done  evil,  and  the  time  comes  none  too  soon.  Sas- 
sacus was  your  chief.  I  envied  him  his  happiness, 
264 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

and  gave  him  poison  when  I  nursed  him.  Worse 
than  that,  I  saw  lano  in  her  canoe  on  her  wedding- 
day.  She  had  refused  my  hand.  I  entered  my 
canoe  and  chased  her  over  the  water,  in  pretended 
sport,  but  in  the  middle  of  the  lake  I  upset  her  birch 
and  she  was  drowned.  See  !  she  comes  !" 

For,  as  he  spoke,  the  light  danced  up  again,  and 
the  boat  came,  self-impelled,  to  the  strand.  We- 
quoash  entered  it,  and  with  head  bent  down  was 
hurried  away.  Those  on  the  shore  saw  the  flame 
condense  to  a  woman's  shape,  and  a  voice  issued 
from  it :  "  It  is  my  hour !"  A  blinding  bolt  of 
lightning  fell,  and  at  the  appalling  roar  of  thunder 
all  hid  their  faces.  When  they  looked  up,  boat  and 
flame  had  vanished.  Whenever,  afterward,  an  In- 
dian rowed  across  the  place  where  the  murderer  had 
sunk,  he  dropped  a  stone,  and  the  monument  that 
grew  in  that  way  can  be  seen  on  the  pond  floor  to 
this  day. 

BERKSHIRE   TORIES 

THE   tories  of  Berkshire,  Massachusetts,  were 
men  who  had  been  endeared  to  the  king  by 
holding  office  under  warrant  from  that  sacred  per- 
sonage.    They  have  been  gently  dealt  with  by  his- 
torians, but  that  is  "  overstrained  magnanimity  which 
concentrates  its    charities  and    praises    for  defeated 
champions  of  the  wrong,  and  reserves  its  censures 
for  triumphant  defenders  of  the  right."     While  the 
165 


Myths  and  Legends 

following  incidents  have  been  so  well  avouched  that 
they  deserve  to  stand  as  history,  their  picturesqueness 
justifies  renewed  acquaintance. 

Among  the  loyalists  was  Gideon  Smith,  of  Stock- 
bridge,  who  had  helped  British  prisoners  to  escape, 
and  had  otherwise  made  himself  so  obnoxious  that 
he  was  forced  for  a  time  to  withdraw  and  pass  a 
season  of  penitence  and  meditation  in  a  cavern  near 
Lenox,  that  is  called  the  Tories'  Glen.  Here  he 
lay  for  weeks,  none  but  his  wife  knowing  where  he 
was,  but  at  his  request  she  walked  out  every  day 
with  her  children,  leading  them  past  his  cave,  where 
he  fed  on  their  faces  with  hungry  eyes.  They 
prattled  on,  never  dreaming  that  their  father  was 
but  a  few  feet  from  them.  Smith  survived  the  war 
and  lived  to  be  on  good  terms  with  his  old  foes. 

In  Lenox  lived  a  Tory,  one  of  those  respectable 
buffers  to  whom  wealth  and  family  had  given  immu- 
nity in  the  early  years  of  the  war,  but  who  sorely 
tried  the  temper  of  his  neighbors  by  damning  every- 
thing American  from  Washington  downward.  At 
last  they  could  endure  his  abuse  no  longer ;  his  ex- 
ample had  affected  other  Anglomaniacs,  and  a  com- 
mittee waited  on  him  to  tell  him  that  he  could  either 
swear  allegiance  to  the  colonies  or  be  hanged.  He  said 
he  would  be  hanged  if  he  would  swear,  or  words 
to  that  effect,  and  hanged  he  was,  on  a  ready-made 
gallows  in  the  street.  He  was  let  down  shortly, 
"  brought  around"  with  rum,  and  the  oath  was  of- 
fered again.  He  refused  it.  This  had  not  been 
266 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

looked  for.  It  had  been  taken  for  granted  that  he 
would  abjure  his  fealty  to  the  king  at  the  first  tight- 
ening of  the  cord.  A  conference  was  held,  and  it 
was  declared  that  retreat  would  be  undignified  and 
unsafe,  so  the  Tory  was  swung  up  again,  this  time 
with  a  yank  that  seemed  to  "  mean  business."  He 
hung  for  some  time,  and  when  lowered  gave  no  sign 
of  life.  There  was  some  show  of  alarm  at  this,  for 
nobody  wanted  to  kill  the  old  fellow,  and  every 
effort  was  made  to  restore  consciousness.  At  last 
the  lungs  heaved,  the  purple  faded  from  his  cheek, 
his  eyes  opened,  and  he  gasped,  "  I'll  swear."  With 
a  shout  of  joy  the  company  hurried  him  to  the 
tavern,  seated  him  before  the  fire,  and  put  a  glass  of 
punch  in  his  hand.  He  drank  the  punch  to  Wash- 
ington's health,  and  after  a  time  was  heard  to  re- 
mark to  himself,  "  It's  a  hard  way  to  make  Whigs, 
but  it'll  do  it." 

Nathan  Jackson,  of  Tyringham,  was  another 
Yankee  who  had  seen  fit  to  take  arms  against  his 
countrymen,  and  when  captured  he  was  charged 
with  treason  and  remanded  for  trial.  The  jail,  in 
Great  Harrington,  was  so  little  used  in  those  days  of 
sturdy  virtue  that  it  had  become  a  mere  shed,  fit  to 
hold  nobody,  and  Jackson,  after  being  locked  into  it, 
might  have  walked  out  whenever  he  felt  disposed ; 
but  escape,  he  thought,  would  have  been  a  confes- 
sion of  the  wrongness  of  Tory  principles,  or  of  a 
fear  to  stand  trial.  He  found  life  so  monotonous, 
however,  that  he  asked  the  sheriff  to  let  him  go  out 
267 


Myths  and  Legends 

to  work  during  the  day,  promising  to  sleep  in  his 
cell,  and  such  was  his  reputation  for  honesty  that 
his  request  was  granted  without  a  demur,  the  pris- 
oner returning  every  night  to  be  locked  up.  When 
the  time  approached  for  the  court  to  meet  in  Spring- 
field heavy  harvesting  had  begun,  and,  as  there  was 
no  other  case  from  Berkshire  County  to  present,  the 
sheriff  grumbled  at  the  bother  of  taking  his  prisoner 
across  fifty  miles  of  rough  country,  but  Jackson  said 
that  he  would  make  it  all  right  by  going  alone.  The 
sheriff  was  glad  to  be  released  from  this  duty,  so  off 
went  the  Tory  to  give  himself  up  and  be  tried  for 
his  life.  On  the  way  he  was  overtaken  by  Mr.  Ed- 
wards, of  the  Executive  Council,  then  about  to  meet 
in  Boston,  and  without  telling  his  own  name  or 
office,  he  learned  the  extraordinary  errand  of  this 
lonely  pedestrian.  Jackson  was  tried,  admitted  the 
charges  against  him,  and  was  sentenced  to  death. 
While  he  awaited  execution  of  the  law  upon  him, 
the  council  in  Boston  received  petitions  for  clemency, 
and  Mr.  Edwards  asked  if  there  was  none  in  favor 
of  Nathan  Jackson.  There  was  none.  Mr.  Ed- 
wards related  the  circumstance  of  his  meeting  with 
the  condemned  man,  and  a  murmur  of  surprise  and 
admiration  went  around  the  room.  A  despatch  was 
sent  to  Springfield.  When  it  reached  there  the 
prison  door  was  flung  open  and  Jackson  walked 
forth  free. 


268 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 


THE   REVENGE   OF  JOSIAH   BREEZE 

TWO  thousand  Cape  Cod  fishermen  had  gone 
to  join  the  colonial  army,  and  in  their  ab- 
sence the  British  ships  had  run  in  shore  to  land 
crews  on  mischievous  errands.  No  man,  woman, 
or  child  on  the  Cape  but  hated  the  troops  and  sailors 
of  King  George,  and  would  do  anything  to  work 
them  harm.  When  the  Somerset  was  wrecked  off 
Truro,  in  1778,  the  crew  were  helped  ashore,  'tis 
true,  but  they  were  straightway  marched  to  prison, 
and  it  was  thought  that  no  other  frigate  would  ven- 
ture near  the  shifting  dunes  where  she  had  laid  her 
skeleton,  as  many  a  good  ship  had  done  before  and 
has  done  since.  It  was  November,  and  ugly  weather 
was  shutting  in,  when  a  three-decker,  that  had  been 
tacking  off  shore  and  that  flew  the  red  flag,  was  seen 
to  yaw  wildly  while  reefing  sail  and  drift  toward 
land  with  a  broken  tiller.  No  warning  signal  was 
raised  on  the  bluffs ;  not  a  hand  was  stirred  to 
rescue.  Those  who  saw  the  accident  watched  with 
sullen  satisfaction  the  on-coming  of  the  vessel,  nor 
did  they  cease  to  look  for  disaster  when  the  ship 
anchored  and  stowed  sail. 

Ezekiel  and  Josiah  Breeze,  father  and  son,  stood 
at  the  door  of  their  cottage  and  watched  her  peril  until 
three  lights  twinkling  faintly  through  the  gray  of 
driving  snow  were  all  that  showed  where  the  enemy 
lay,  straining  at  her  cables  and  tossing  on  a  wrathful 
269 


Myths  and  Legends 

sea.     They  stood  long  in  silence,  but  at  last  the  boy 
exclaimed,  "  I'm  going  to  the  ship." 

"  If  you  stir  from  here,  you're  no  son  of  mine," 
said  Ezekiel. 

"  But  she's  in  danger,  dad." 

"  As  she  oughter  be.  By  mornin'  she'll  be 
strewed  along  the  shore  and  not  a  spar  to  mark 
where  she's  a-swingin'  now." 

"  And  the  men  ?" 

"  It's  a  jedgment,  boy." 

The  lad  remembered  how  the  sailors  of  the  Ajax 
had  come  ashore  to  burn  the  homes  of  peaceful  fish- 
ermen and  farmers ;  how  women  had  been  insulted ; 
how  his  friends  and  mates  had  been  cut  down  at 
Long  Island  with  British  lead  and  steel ;  how,  when 
he  ran  to  warn  away  a  red-faced  fellow  that  was 
robbing  his  garden,  the  man  had  struck  him  on  the 
shoulder  with  a  cutlass.  He  had  sworn  then  to  be 
revenged.  But  to  let  a  host  go  down  to  death  and 
never  lift  a  helping  hand — was  that  a  fair  revenge  ? 
"  I've  got  to  go,  dad,"  he  burst  forth.  "  To-mor- 
row morning  there'll  be  five  hundred  faces  turned  up 
on  the  beach,  covered  with  ice  and  staring  at  the 
sky,  and  five  hundred  mothers  in  England  will  won- 
der when  they're  goin'  to  see  those  faces  again.  If 
ever  they  looked  at  me  the  sight  of  'em  would  never 
go  out  of  my  eyes.  I'd  be  harnted  by  'em,  awake 
and  asleep.  And  to-morrow  is  Thanksgiving.  I've 
got  to  go,  dad,  and  I  will:"  So  speaking,  he 
rushed  away  and  was  swallowed  in  the  gloom. 
270 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

The  man  stared  after  him ;  then,  with  a  revulsion 
of  feeling,  he  cried,  "  You're  right,  'Siah.  I'll  go 
with  you."  But  had  he  called  in  tones  of  thunder 
he  would  not  have  been  heard  in  the  roar  of  the 
wind  and  crash  of  the  surf.  As  he  reached  the 
shore  he  saw  faintly  on  the  phosphorescent  foam  a 
something  that  climbed  a  hill  of  water ;  it  was  lost 
over  its  crest  and  reappeared  on  the  wave  beyond ; 
it  showed  for  a  moment  on  the  third  wave,  then  it 
vanished  in  the  night.  "Josiah!"  It  was  a  long, 
querulous  cry.  No  answer.  In  half  an  hour  a  thing 
rode  by  the  watcher  on  the  sands  and  fell  with  a 
crash  beside  him — a  boat  bottom  up :  his  son's. 

Next  day  broke  clear,  with  new  snow  on  the 
ground.  In  his  house  at  Provincetown,  Captain 
Breeze  was  astir  betimes,  for  his  son  Ezekiel,  his 
grandson  Josiah,  and  all  other  relatives  who  were 
not  at  the  front  with  Washington  were  coming  for 
the  family  reunion.  Plump  turkeys  were  ready  for 
the  roasting,  great  loaves  of  bread  and  cake  stood  be- 
side the  oven,  redoubtable  pies  of  pumpkin  and  apple 
filled  the  air  with  maddening  odors.  The  people 
gathered  and  chattered  around  his  cheery  fire  of  the 
damage  that  the  storm  had  done,  when  Ezekiel 
stumbled  in,  his  brown  face  haggard,  his  lips  work- 
ing, and  a  tremor  in  his  hands.  He  said,  "  Josiah  !" 
in  a  thick  voice,  then  leaned  his  arms  against  the 
chimney  and  pressed  his  face  upon  them.  Among 
fishermen  whose  lives  are  in  daily  peril  the  under- 
standing of  misfortune  is  quick,  and  the  old  man  put 
vj\ 


Myths  and  Legends 

his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  son  and  bent  his  head. 
The  day  of  joy  was  become  a  day  of  gloom.  As  the 
news  went  out,  the  house  began  to  fill  with  sym- 
pathizing friends,  and  there  was  talking  in  low 
voices  through  the  rooms,  when  a  cry  of  surprise 
was  heard  outside.  A  ship,  cased  in  tons  of  ice, 
was  forging  up  the  harbor,  her  decks  swarming  with 
blue  jackets,  some  of  whom  were  beating  off  the 
frozen  masses  from  lower  spars  and  rigging.  She 
followed  the  channel  so  steadily,  it  was  plain  to  be 
seen  that  a  wise  hand  was  at  her  helm  ;  her  anchor 
ran  out  and  she  swung  on  the  tide.  "  The  Ajax,  as 
I'm  a  sinner !"  exclaimed  a  sailor  on  shore.  A 
boat  put  off  from  her,  and  people  angrily  collected 
at  the  wharf,  with  talk  of  getting  out  their  guns, 
when  a  boyish  figure  arose  in  the  stern,  and  was 
greeted  with  a  shout  of  surprise  and  welcome. 

The  boat  touched  the  beach,  Josiah  Breeze  leaped 
out  of  it,  and  in  another  minute  his  father  had  him  in 
a  bear's  embrace,  making  no  attempt  to  stop  the  tears 
that  welled  out  of  his  eyes.  An  officer  had  followed 
Josiah  on  shore,  and  going  to  the  group  he  said, 
"  That  boy  is  one  to  be  proud  of.  He  put  out  in  a 
sea  that  few  men  could  face,  to  save  an  enemy's 
ship  and  pilot  it  into  the  harbor.  I  could  do  no 
less  than  bring  him  back."  There  was  praise  and 
laughter  and  clasping  of  hands,  and  when  the 
Thanksgiving  dinner  was  placed,  smoking,  on  the 
board,  the  commander  of  H.  M.  S.  Ajax  was  among 
the  jolliest  of  the  guests  at  Captain  Breeze's  table, 
ay  a 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

THE   MAY-POLE  OF   MERRYMOUNT 

THE  people  of  Merrymount — unsanctified  in 
the  eyes  of  their  Puritan  neighbors,  for  were 
they  not  Episcopals,  who  had  pancakes  at  Shrovetide 
and  wassail  at  Christmas  ? — were  dancing  about  their 
May-pole  one  summer  evening,  for  they  tried  to  make 
it  May  throughout  the  year.  Some  were  masked 
like  animals,  and  all  were  tricked  with  flowers  and 
ribbons.  Within  their  circle,  sharing  in  song  and 
jest,  were  the  lord  and  lady  of  the  revels,  and  an 
English  clergyman  waiting  to  join  the  pair  in  wed- 
lock. Life,  they  sang,  should  be  all  jollity :  away 
with  care  and  duty ;  leave  wisdom  to  the  weak  and 
old,  and  sanctity  for  fools.  Watching  the  sport 
from  a  neighboring  wood  stood  a  band  of  frowning 
Puritans,  and  as  the  sun  set  they  stalked  forth  and 
broke  through  the  circle.  All  was  dismay.  The 
bells,  the  laughter,  the  song  were  silent,  and  some 
who  had  tasted  Puritan  wrath  before  shrewdly 
smelled  the  stocks.  A  Puritan  of  iron  face — it  was 
Endicott,  who  had  cut  the  cross  from  the  flag  of 
England — warning  aside  the  "priest  of  Baal,"  pro- 
ceeded to  hack  the  pole  down  with  his  sword.  A 
few  swinging  blows,  and  down  it  sank,  with  its 
ribbons  and  flowers. 

"  So  shall  fall  the  pride  of  vain  people ;  so  shall 

come  to  grief  the  preachers  of  false  religion,"  quoth 

he.     "  Truss  those  fellows  to  the  trees  and  give  them 

half  a  dozen  of  blows  apiece  as  token  that  we  brook 

x8  a 


Myths  and  Legends 

no  ungodly  conduct  and  hostility  to  our  liberties. 
And  you,  king  and  queen  of  the  May,  have  you  no 
better  things  to  think  about  than  fiddling  and  danc- 
ing ?  How  if  I  punish  you  both  ?" 

"  Had  I  the  power  I'd  punish  you  for  saying  it," 
answered  the  swain ;  "  but,  as  I  have  not,  I  am 
compelled  to  ask  that  the  girl  go  unharmed." 

"  Will  you  have  it  so,  or  will  you  share  your 
lover's  punishment  ?"  asked  Endicott. 

"  I  will  take  all  upon  myself,"  said  the  woman. 

The  face  of  the  governor  softened.  "  Let  the 
young  fellow's  hair  be  cut,  in  pumpkin-shell  fash- 
ion," he  commanded ;  "  then  bring  them  to  me — 
but  gently." 

He  was  obeyed,  and  as  the  couple  came  before 
him,  hand  in  hand,  he  took  a  chain  of  roses  from 
the  fallen  pole  and  cast  it  about  their  necks.  And 
so  they  were  married.  Love  had  softened  rigor 
and  all  were  better  for  the  assertion  of  a  common 
humanity.  But  the  May-pole  of  Merrymount  was 
never  set  up  again.  There  were  no  more  games 
and  plays  and  dances,  nor  singing  of  worldly  music. 
The  town  went  to  ruin,  the  merrymakers  were  scat- 
tered, and  the  gray  sobriety  of  religion  and  toil  fell 
on  Pilgrim  land  again. 


274 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

THE   DEVIL   AND   TOM   WALKER 

WHEN  Charles  River  was  lined  with  groves 
and  marshes  there  lived  in  a  cabin,  near 
Brighton,  Massachusetts,  an  ill-fed  rascal  named 
Tom  Walker.  There  was  but  one  in  the  common- 
wealth who  was  more  penurious,  and  that  was  his 
wife.  They  squabbled  over  the  spending  of  a 
penny  and  each  grudged  food  to  the  other.  One 
day  as  Tom  walked  through  the  pine  wood  near  his 
place,  by  habit  watching  the  ground — for  even  there 
a  farthing  might  be  discovered — he  prodded  his  stick 
into  a  skull,  cloven  deep  by  an  Indian  tomahawk. 
He  kicked  it,  to  shake  the  dirt  off,  when  a  gruff 
voice  spake  :  "  What  are  you  doing  in  my  grounds  ?" 
A  swarthy  fellow,  with  the  face  of  a  charcoal  burner, 
sat  on  a  stump,  and  Tom  wondered  that  he  had  not 
seen  him  as  he  approached. 

He  replied,  "  Your  grounds  !  They  belong  to 
Deacon  Peabody." 

"  Deacon  Peabody  be  damned !"  cried  the  black 
fellow ;  "  as  I  think  he  will  be,  anyhow,  if  he  does 
not  look  after  his  own  sins  a  little  sharper  and  a  little 
less  curiously  after  his  neighbors'.  Look,  if  you 
want  to  see  how  he  is  faring,"  and,  pointing  to  a 
tree,  he  called  Tom  to  notice  that  the  deacon's 
name  was  written  on  the  bark  and  that  it  was  rotten 
at  the  core.  To  his  surprise,  Tom  found  that 
nearly  every  tree  had  the  name  of  some  prominent 
man  cut  upon  it. 

275 


Myths  and  Legends 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  go  by  different  names  in  different  places,"  re- 
plied the  dark  one.  "  In  some  countries  I  am  the 
black  miner ;  in  some  the  wild  huntsman ;  here  I 
am  the  black  woodman.  I  am  the  patron  of  slave 
dealers  and  master  of  Salem  witches." 

"  I  think  you  are  the  devil,"  blurted  Tom. 

"  At  your  service,"  replied  his  majesty. 

Now,  Tom,  having  lived  long  with  Mrs.  Walker, 
had  no  fear  of  the  devil,  and  he  stopped  to  have 
a  talk  with  him.  The  devil  remarked,  in  a  careless 
tone,  that  Captain  Kidd  had  buried  his  treasure  in 
that  wood,  under  his  majesty's  charge,  and  that  who- 
ever wished  could  find  and  keep  it  by  making  the 
usual  concession.  This  Tom  declined.  He  told 
his  wife  about  it,  however,  and  she  was  angry  with 
him  for  not  having  closed  the  bargain  at  once,  de- 
claring that  if  he  had  not  courage  enough  to  add 
this  treasure  to  their  possessions  she  would  not 
hesitate  to  do  it.  Tom  showed  no  disposition  to 
check  her.  If  she  got  the  money  he  would  try  to 
get  a  share  of  it,  and  if  the  devil  took  away  his 
helpmate — well,  there  were  things  that  he  had 
made  his  mind  to  endure,  when  he  had  to.  True 
enough,  the  woman  started  for  the  wood  before  sun- 
down, with  her  spoons  in  her  apron.  When  Tom 
discovered  that  the  spoons  were  gone  he,  too,  set  off, 
for  he  wanted  those  back,  anyway ;  but  he  did  not 
overtake  his  wife.  An  apron  was  found  in  a  tree 
containing  a  dried  liver  and  a  withered  heart,  and 
276 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

near  that  place  the  earth  had  been  trampled  and 
strewn  with  handfuls  of  coarse  hair  that  reminded 
Tom  of  the  man  that  he  had  met  in  the  woods. 
"  Egad !"  he  muttered,  "  Old  Nick  must  have  had  a 
tough  time  with  her."  Half  in  gratitude  and  half 
in  curiosity,  Tom  waited  to  speak  to  the  dark  man, 
and  was  next  day  rewarded  by  seeing  that  personage 
come  through  the  wood  with  an  axe,  whistling  care- 
lessly. Tom  at  once  approached  him  on  the  subject 
of  the  buried  treasure — not  the  vanished  wife,  for 
her  he  no  longer  regarded  as  a  treasure. 

After  some  haggling  the  devil  proposed  that  Tom 
should  start  a  loan  office  in  Boston  and  use  Kidd's 
money  in  exacting  usury.  This  suited  Tom,  who 
promised  to  screw  four  per  cent,  a  month  out  of  the 
unfortunates  who  might  ask  his  aid,  and  he  was  seen 
to  start  for  town  with  a  bag  which  his  neighbors 
thought  to  hold  his  crop  of  starveling  turnips,  but 
which  was  really  a  king's  ransom  in  gold  and  jewels 
— the  earnings  of  Captain  Kidd  in  long  years  of 
honest  piracy.  It  was  in  Governor  Belcher's  time, 
and  cash  was  scarce.  Merchants  and  professional 
men  as  well  as  the  thriftless  went  to  Tom  for  money, 
and,  as  he  always  had  it,  his  business  grew  until  he 
seemed  to  have  a  mortgage  on  half  the  men  in  Boston 
who  were  rich  enough  to  be  in  debt.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  move  into  a  new  house,  to  ride  in  his  own 
carriage,  and  to  eat  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together,  for  he  did  not  want  to  give  up  his  soul  to 
the  one  who  would  claim  it — just  yet. 
277 


Myths  and  Legends 

The  most  singular  proof  of  his  thrift — showing 
that  he  wanted  to  save  soul  and  money  both — was 
shown  in  his  joining  the  church  and  becoming  a 
prayerful  Christian.  He  kept  a  Bible  in  his  pocket 
and  another  on  his  desk,  resolved  to  be  prepared  if 
a  certain  gentleman  should  call.  He  buried  his  old 
horse  feet  uppermost,  for  he  was  taught  that  on  res- 
urrection day  the  world  would  be  turned  upside 
down,  and  he  was  resolved,  if  his  enemy  appeared, 
to  give  him  a  run  for  it.  While  employed  one  after- 
noon in  the  congenial  task  of  foreclosing  a  mortgage 
his  creditor  begged  for  another  day  to  raise  the 
money.  Tom  was  irritable  on  account  of  the  hot 
weather  and  talked  to  him  as  a  good  man  of  the 
church  ought  not  to  do. 

"  You  have  made  so  much  money  out  of  me," 
wailed  the  victim  of  Tom's  philanthropies. 

"  Now,  the  devil  take  me  if  I  have  made  a 
farthing !"  exclaimed  Tom. 

At  that  instant  there  were  three  knocks  at  the 
door,  and,  stepping  out  to  see  who  was  there,  the 
money  lender  found  himself  in  presence  of  his  fate. 
His  little  Bible  was  in  a  coat  on  a  nail,  and  the 
bigger  one  was  on  his  desk.  He  was  without  de- 
fence. The  evil  one  caught  him  up  like  a  child, 
had  him  on  the  back  of  his  snorting  steed  in  no 
time,  and  giving  the  beast  a  cut  he  flew  like  the  wind 
in  the  teeth  of  a  rising  storm  toward  the  marshes  of 
Brighton.  As  he  reached  there  a  lightning  flash 
descended  into  the  wood  and  set  it  on  fire.  At  the 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

same  moment  Tom's  house  was  discovered  to  be  in 
flames.  When  his  effects  were  examined  nothing 
was  found  in  his  strong  boxes  but  cinders  and 
shavings. 

THE   GRAY   CHAMPION 

IT  befell  Sir  Edmund  Andros  to  make  himself  the 
most  hated  of  the  governors  sent  to  represent 
the  king  in  New  England.  A  spirit  of  indepen- 
dence, born  of  a  free  soil,  was  already  moving  in 
the  people's  hearts,  and  the  harsh  edicts  of  this 
officer,  as  well  as  the  oppressive  [measures  of  his 
master,  brought  him  into  continual  conflict  with  the 
people.  He  it  was  who  went  to  Hartford  to  de- 
mand the  surrender  of  the  liberties  of  that  colony. 
The  lights  were  blown  out  and  the  patent  of  those 
liberties  was  hurried  away  from  under  his  nose  and 
hidden  from  his  reach  in  a  hollow  of  the  Charter 
Oak. 

In  Boston,  too,  he  could  call  no  American  his 
friend,  and  it  was  there  that  he  met  one  of  the  first 
checks  to  his  arrogance.  It  was  an  April  evening  in 
1689,  and  there  was  an  unusual  stir  in  the  streets. 
People  were  talking  in  low  tones,  and  one  caught 
such  phrases  as,  "  If  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  suc- 
cessful, this  Andros  will  lose  his  head."  "  Our 
pastors  are  to  be  burned  alive  in  King  Street." 
"  The  pope  has  ordered  Andros  to  celebrate  the 
eve  of  St.  Bartholomew  in  Boston :  we  are  to  be 
killed."  "  Our  old  Governor  Bradstreet  is  in  town, 
279 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  Andros  fears  him."  While  talk  was  running  in 
this  excited  strain  the  sound  of  a  drum  was  heard 
coming  through  Cornhill.  Now  was  seen  a  file  of 
soldiers  with  guns  on  shoulder,  matches  twinkling  in 
the  falling  twilight,  and  behind  them,  on  horseback, 
Andros  and  his  councillors,  including  the  priest  of 
King's  Chapel,  all  wearing  crucifixes  at  their  throats, 
all  flushed  with  wine,  all  looking  down  with  indif- 
ference at  the  people  in  their  dark  cloaks  and  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  who  looked  back  at  them  with  suspi- 
cion and  hate.  The  soldiers  trod  the  streets  like 
men  unused  to  giving  way,  and  the  crowd  fell  back, 
pressed  against  the  buildings.  Groans  and  hisses 
were  heard,  and  a  voice  sent  up  this  cry,  "  Lord  of 
Hosts,  provide  a  champion  for  thy  people !" 

Ere  the  echo  of  that  call  had  ceased  there  came 
from  the  other  end  of  the  street,  stepping  as  in  time 
to  the  drum,  an  aged  man,  in  cloak  and  steeple  hat, 
with  heavy  sword  at  his  thigh.  His  port  was  that  of 
a  king,  and  his  dignity  was  heightened  by  a  snowy 
beard  that  fell  to  his  waist.  Taking  the  middle  of 
the  way  he  marched  on  until  he  was  but  a  few  paces 
from  the  advancing  column.  None  knew  him  and 
he  seemed  to  recognize  none  among  the  crowd.  As 
he  drew  himself  to  his  height,  it  seemed  in  the  dusk 
as  if  he  were  of  no  mortal  mould.  His  eye  blazed, 
he  thrust  his  staff  before  him,  and  in  a  voice  of 
invincible  command  cried,  "  Halt !" 

Half  because  it  was  habit  to  obey  the  word,  half  be- 
cause they  were  cowed  by  the  majestic  presence,  the 
280 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

guard  stood  still  and  the  drum  was  silenced.  Andros 
spurred  forward,  but  even  he  made  a  pause  when  he 
saw  the  staff  levelled  at  his  breast.  "  Forward  !" 
he  blustered.  "  Trample  the  dotard  into  the  street. 
How  dare  you  stop  the  king's  governor  ?" 

"I  have  stayed  the  march  of  a  king  himself," 
was  the  answer.  "  The  king  you  serve  no  longer 
sits  on  the  throne  of  England.  To-morrow  you 
will  be  a  prisoner.  Back,  lest  you  reach  the  scaf- 
fold !" 

A  moment  of  hesitation  on  Andres's  part  encour- 
aged the  people  to  press  closer,  and  many  of  them 
took  no  pains  to  hide  the  swords  and  pistols  that 
were  girt  upon  them.  The  groans  and  hisses 
sounded  louder.  "  Down  with  Andros  !  Death  to 
tyrants !  A  curse  on  King  James !"  came  from 
among  the  throng,  and  some  of  them  stooped  as  if 
to  tear  up  the  pavings.  Doubtful,  yet  overawed, 
the  governor  wheeled  about  and  gloomily  marched 
back  through  the  streets  where  he  had  ridden  so 
arrogantly.  In  truth,  his  next  night  was  spent 
in  prison,  for  James  had  fled  from  England,  and 
William  held  the  throne.  All  eyes  being  on  the 
retreating  company,  the  champion  of  the  people  was 
not  seen  to  depart,  but  when  they  turned  to  praise 
and  thank  him  he  had  vanished,  and  there  were  those 
who  said  that  he  had  melted  into  twilight. 

The  incident  had  passed  into  legend,  and  four- 
score years  had  followed  it,  when  the  soldiers  of 
another  king  of  England  marched  down  State  Street, 
281 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  fired  on  the  people  of  Boston  who  were  gathered 
below  the  old  State  House.  Again  it  was  said  that 
the  form  of  a  tall,  white-bearded  man  in  antique 
garb  was  seen  in  that  street,  warning  back  the  troops 
and  encouraging  the  people  to  resist  them.  On  the 
little  field  of  Lexington  in  early  dawn,  and  at  the 
breastwork  on  Bunker  Hill,  where  farmers  worked 
by  lantern-light,  this  dark  form  was  seen — the  spirit 
of  New  England.  And  it  is  told  that  whenever  any 
foreign  foe  or  domestic  oppressor  shall  dare  the  tem- 
per of  the  people,  in  the  van  of  the  resisting  army 
shall  be  found  this  champion. 

THE   FOREST   SMITHY 

EARLY  in  this  century  a  man  named  Ainsley 
appeared  at  Holyoke,  Massachusetts,  and  set 
up  a  forge  in  a  wood  at  the  edge  of  the  village,  with 
a  two-room  cottage  to  live  in.  A  Yankee  peddler 
once  put  up  at  his  place  for  shelter  from  a  storm, 
and  as  the  rain  increased  with  every  hour  he  begged 
to  remain  in  the  house  over  night,  promising  to  pay 
for  his  accommodation  in  the  morning.  The  black- 
smith, who  seemed  a  mild,  considerate  man,  said  that 
he  was  willing,  but  that,  as  the  rooms  were  small,  it 
would  be  well  to  refer  the  matter  to  his  wife.  As 
the  peddler  entered  the  house  the  wife — a  weary- 
looking  woman  with  white  hair — seated  herself  at 
once  in  a  thickly-cushioned  arm-chair,  and,  as  if 
loath  to  leave  it,  told  the  peddler  that  if  he  would 
282 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

put  up  with  simple  fare  and  a  narrow  berth  he  was 
welcome.  After  a  candle  had  been  lighted  the 
three  sat  together  for  some  time,  talking  of  crops 
and  trade,  when  there  came  a  rush  of  hoofs  without 
and  a  hard-looking  man,  who  had  dismounted  at  the 
door,  entered  without  knocking.  The  blacksmith 
turned  pale  and  the  wife's  face  expressed  sore  anxiety. 

"  What  brings  you  here  ?"  asked  the  smith. 

"  I  must  pass  the  night  here,"  answered  the  man. 

"  But,  stranger,  I  can't  accommodate  you.  We 
have  but  one  spare  room,  and  that  has  been  taken  by 
the  man  who  is  sitting  there." 

"  Then  give  me  a  bit  to  eat." 

"  Get  the  stranger  something,"  said  the  woman  to 
her  husband,  without  rising. 

"  Are  you  lame,  that  you  don't  get  it  yourself?" 

The  woman  paused ;  then  said,  "  Husband,  you 
are  tired.  Sit  here  and  I  will  wait  on  the  stranger." 

The  blacksmith  took  the  seat,  when  the  stranger 
again  blustered,  "  It  would  be  courtesy  to  offer  me 
that  chair,  tired  as  I  am.  Perhaps  you  don't  know 
that  I  am  an  officer  of  the  law  ?" 

When  supper  was  ready  they  took  their  places, 
the  woman  drawing  up  the  arm-chair  for  her  own 
use,  but,  as  the  custom  was,  they  all  knelt  to  say 
grace,  and  while  their  faces  were  buried  in  their 
hands  the  candle  was  blown  out.  The  stranger 
jumped  up  and  began  walking  around  the  room. 
When  a  light  could  be  found  he  had  gone  and  the 
cushion  had  disappeared  from  the  chair.  "  Oh ! 
a83 


Myths  and  Legends 

After  all  these  years !"  wailed  the  woman,  and  fall- 
ing on  her  knees  she  sobbed  like  a  child,  while  her 
husband  in  vain  tried  to  comfort  her.  The  peddler, 
who  had  already  gone  to  bed,  but  who  had  seen  a 
part  of  this  puzzling  drama  through  the  open  door, 
knew  not  what  to  do,  but,  feeling  some  concern  for 
the  safety  of  his  own  possessions,  he  drew  his  pack 
into  bed  with  him,  and,  being  tired,  fell  asleep  with 
the  sobs  of  the  woman  sounding  in  his  ears. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  day  and  the  earth 
was  fresh  and  bright  from  its  bath.  After  dressing 
he  passed  into  the  other  room,  finding  the  table  still 
set,  the  chair  before  it  without  its  cushion,  the  fire 
out,  and  nobody  in  or  about  the  house.  The  smithy 
was  deserted,  and  to  his  call  there  was  no  response 
but  the  chattering  of  jays  in  the  trees  ;  so,  shoulder- 
ing his  pack,  he  resumed  his  journey.  He  opened 
his  pack  at  a  farm-house  to  repair  a  clock,  when  he 
discovered  that  his  watches  were  gone,  and  imme- 
diately lodged  complaint  with  the  sheriff",  but  noth- 
ing was  ever  seen  again  of  Ainsley,  his  wife,  or  the 
rough  stranger.  Who  was  the  thief?  What  was 
in  the  cushion  ?  And  what  brought  the  stranger  to 
the  house  ? 

WAHCONAH   FALLS 

THE  pleasant  valley  of  Dalton,  in  the  Berkshire 
Hills,  had  been  under  the  rule  of  Miacomo 
for   forty  years  when  a   Mohawk  dignitary  of   fifty 
scalps  and  fifty  winters  came  a-wooing  his  daughter 
284 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

Wahconah.  On  a  June  day  in  1637,  as  the  girl  sat 
beside  the  cascade  that  bears  her  name,  twining 
flowers  in  her  hair  and  watching  leaves  float  down 
the  stream,  she  became  conscious  of  a  pair  of  eyes 
bent  on  her  from  a  neighboring  coppice,  and  arose 
in  some  alarm.  Finding  himself  discovered,  the 
owner  of  the  eyes,  a  handsome  young  fellow, 
stepped  forward  with  a  quieting  air  of  friendliness, 
and  exclaimed,  "  Hail,  Bright  Star  !" 

"  Hail,  brother,"  answered  Wahconah. 

"  I  am  Nessacus,"  said  the  man,  "  one  of  King 
Philip's  soldiers.  Nessacus  is  tired  with  his  flight 
from  the  Long  Knives  (the  English),  and  his  people 
faint.  Will  Bright  Star's  people  shut  their  lodges 
against  him  and  his  friends  ?" 

The  maiden  answered,  "  My  father  is  absent,  in 
council  with  the  Mohawks,  but  his  wigwams  are 
always  open.  Follow." 

Nessacus  gave  a  signal,  and  forth  from  the  wood 
came  a  sad-eyed,  battle-worn  troop  that  mustered 
about  him.  Under  the  girl's  lead  they  went  down 
to  the  valley  and  were  hospitably  housed.  Five 
days  later  Miacomo  returned,  with  him  the  elderly 
Mohawk  lover,  and  a  priest,  Tashmu,  of  repute  a 
cringing  schemer,  with  whom  hunters  and  soldiers 
could  have  nothing  in  common,  and  whom  they 
would  gladly  have  put  out  of  the  way  had  they  not 
been  deterred  by  superstitious  fears.  The  strangers 
were  welcomed,  though  Tashmu  looked  at  them 
gloomily,  and  there  were  games  in  their  honor, 
285 


Myths  and  Legends 

Nessacus  usually  proving  the  winner,  to  Wahconah's 
joy,  for  she  and  the  young  warrior  had  fallen  in 
love  at  first  sight,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he 
asked  her  father  for  her  hand.  Miacomo  favored  the 
suit,  but  the  priest  advised  him,  for  politic  reasons, 
to  give  the  girl  to  the  old  Mohawk,  and  thereby 
cement  a  tribal  friendship  that  in  those  days  of 
English  aggression  might  be  needful.  The  Mohawk 
had  three  wives  already,  but  he  was  determined  to 
add  Wahconah  to  his  collection,  and  he  did  his  best, 
with  threats  and  flattery,  to  enforce  his  suit.  Nes- 
sacus offered  to  decide  the  matter  in  a  duel  with  his 
rival,  and  the  challenge  was  accepted,  but  the  wily 
Tashmu  discovered  in  voices  of  wind  and  thunder, 
flight  of  birds  and  shape  of  clouds,  such  omens  that 
the  scared  Indians  unanimously  forbade  a  resort  to 
arms.  "  Let  the  Great  Spirit  speak,"  cried  Tashmu, 
and  all  yielded  their  consent. 

Invoking  a  ban  on  any  who  should  follow,  Tashmu 
proclaimed  that  he  would  pass  that  night  in  Wizard's 
Glen,  where,  by  invocations,  he  would  learn  the  di- 
vine will.  At  sunset  he  stalked  forth,  but  he  had  not 
gone  far  ere  the  Mohawk  joined  him,  and  the  twain 
proceeded  to  Wahconah  Falls.  There  was  no  time 
for  magical  hocus-pocus  that  night,  for  both  of  them 
toiled  sorely  in  deepening  a  portion  of  the  stream 
bed,  so  that  the  current  ran  more  swiftly  and  freely 
on  that  side,  and  in  the  morning  Tashmu  announced 
in  what  way  the  Great  Spirit  would  show  his  choice. 
Assembling  the  tribe  on  the  river-bank,  below  a  rock 
286 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

that  midway  split  the  current,  a  canoe,  with  symbols 
painted  on  it,  was  set  afloat  near  the  falls.  If  it 
passed  the  dividing  rock  on  the  side  where  Nessacus 
waited,  he  should  have  Wahconah.  If  it  swerved 
to  the  opposite  shore,  where  the  Mohawk  and  his 
counsellor  stood,  the  Great  Spirit  had  chosen  the  old 
chief  for  her  husband.  Of  course,  the  Mohawk 
stood  on  the  deeper  side.  On  came  the  little  boat, 
keeping  the  centre  of  the  stream.  It  struck  the  rock, 
and  all  looked  eagerly,  though  Tashmu  and  the  Mo- 
hawk could  hardly  suppress  an  exultant  smile.  A 
little  wave  struck  the  canoe :  it  pivoted  against  the 
rock  and  drifted  to  the  feet  of  Nessacus.  A  look 
of  blank  amazement  came  over  the  faces  of  the  de- 
feated wooer  and  his  friend,  while  a  shout  of  glad- 
ness went  up,  that  the  Great  Spirit  had  decided  so 
well.  The  young  couple  were  wed  with  rejoicings  ; 
the  Mohawk  trudged  homeward,  and,  to  the  general 
satisfaction,  Tashmu  disappeared  with  him.  Later, 
when  Tashmu  was  identified  as  the  one  who  had 
guided  Major  Talcott's  soldiers  to  the  valley,  the 
priest  was  caught  and  slain  by  Miacomo's  men. 

KNOCKING   AT   THE   TOMB 

KNOCK,   knock,  knock!      The  bell  has  just 
gone  twelve,  and  there   is   the   clang  again 
upon  the  iron  door  of  the  tomb.     The  few  people 
of  Lanesboro  who  are  paying  the  penance  of  mis- 
deeds or  late  suppers,  by  lying  awake  at  that  dread 
z87 


Myths  and  Legends 

hour,  gather  their  blankets  around  their  shoulders 
and  mutter  a  word  of  prayer  for  deliverance  against 
unwholesome  visitors  of  the  night.  Why  is  the 
old  Berkshire  town  so  troubled  ?  Who  is  it  that 
lies  buried  in  that  tomb,  with  its  ornament  of 
Masonic  symbols  ?  Why  was  the  heavy  iron 
knocker  placed  on  the  door?  The  question  is 
asked,  but  no  one  will  answer  it,  n6r  will  any  say 
who  the  woman  is  that  so  often  visits  the  cemetery 
at  the  stroke  of  midnight  and  sounds  the  call  into 
the  chamber  of  the  dead.  Starlight,  moonlight,  or 
storm — it  makes  no  difference  to  the  woman.  There 
she  goes,  in  her  black  cloak,  seen  dim  in  the  night, 
except  where  there  are  snow  and  moon  together, 
and  there  she  waits,  her  hand  on  the  knocker,  for 
the  bell  to  strike  to  set  up  her  clangor.  Some  say 
that  she  is  crazy,  and  it  is  her  freak  to  do  this  thing. 
Is  she  calling  on  the  corpses  to  rise  and  have  a  dance 
among  the  graves  ?  or  has  she  been  asked  to  call  the 
occupant  of  that  house  at  a  given  hour  ?  Perhaps, 
weary  of  life,  she  is  asking  for  admittance  to  the 
rest  and  silence  of  the  tomb.  She  has  long  been 
beneath  the  sod,  this  troubler  of  dreams.  Who 
knows  her  secret? 

THE   WHITE   DEER    OF   ONOTA 

BESIDE   quiet  Onota,  in  the   Berkshire   Hills, 
dwelt    a    band   of    Indians,  and  while   they 
lived  here  a  white  deer  often  came  to  drink.     So 
288 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

rare  was  the  appearance  of  an  animal  like  this  that 
its  visits  were  held  as  good  omens,  and  no  hunter 
of  the  tribe  ever  tried  to  slay  it.  A  prophet  of  the 
race  had  said,  "  So  long  as  the  white  doe  drinks  at 
Onota,  famine  shall  not  blight  the  Indian's  harvest, 
nor  pestilence  come  nigh  his  lodge,  nor  foeman  lay 
waste  his  country."  And  this  prophecy  held  true. 
That  summer  when  the  deer  came  with  a  fawn  as 
white  and  graceful  as  herself,  it  was  a  year  of  great 
abundance.  On  the  outbreak  of  the  French  and 
Indian  War  a  young  officer  named  Montalbert  was 
despatched  to  the  Berkshire  country  to  persuade  the 
Housatonic  Indians  to  declare  hostility  to  the  Eng- 
lish, and  it  was  as  a  guest  in  the  village  of  Onota 
that  he  heard  of  the  white  deer.  Sundry  adven- 
turers had  made  valuable  friendships  by  returning  to 
the  French  capital  with  riches  and  curiosities  from 
the  New  World.  Even  Indians  had  been  abducted 
as  gifts  for  royalty,  and  this  young  ambassador  re- 
solved that  when  he  returned  to  his  own  country 
the  skin  of  the  white  deer  should  be  one  of  the 
trophies  that  would  win  him  a  smile  from  Louis. 

He  offered  a  price  for  it — a  price  that  would  have 
bought  all  their  possessions  and  miles  of  the  country 
roundabout,  but  their  deer  was  sacred,  and  their  re- 
fusal to  sacrifice  it  was  couched  in  such  indignant 
terms  that  he  wisely  said  no  more  about  it  in  the 
general  hearing.  There  was  in  the  village  a  drunken 
fellow,  named  Wondo,  who  had  come  to  that  pass 
when  he  would  almost  have  sold  his  soul  for  liquor, 
19  289 


Myths  and  Legends 

and  him  the  officer  led  away  and  plied  with  rum 
until  he  promised  to  bring  the  white  doe  to  him. 
The  pretty  beast  was  so  familiar  with  men  that  she 
suffered  Wondo  to  catch  her  and  lead  her  to  Mont- 
albert.  Making  sure  that  none  was  near,  the  officer 
plunged  his  sword  into  her  side  and  the  innocent  crea- 
ture fell.  The  snowy  skin,  now  splashed  with  red, 
was  quickly  stripped  off,  concealed  among  the  effects 
in  Montalbert's  outfit,  and  he  set  out  for  Canada ; 
but  he  had  not  been  many  days  on  his  road  before 
Wondo,  in  an  access  of  misery  and  repentance,  con- 
fessed to  his  share  of  the  crime  that  had  been  done 
and  was  slain  on  the  moment. 

With  the  death  of  the  deer  came  an  end  to  good 
fortune.  Wars,  blights,  emigration  followed,  and  in 
a  few  years  not  a  wigwam  was  left  standing  beside 
Onota. 

There  is  a  pendant  to  this  legend,  incident  to 
the  survival  of  the  deer's  white  fawn.  An  English 
hunter,  visiting  the  lake  with  dog  and  gun,  was  sur- 
prised to  see  on  its  southern  bank  a  white  doe.  The 
animal  bent  to  drink  and  at  the  same  moment  the 
hunter  put  his  gun  to  his  shoulder.  Suddenly  a 
howl  was  heard,  so  loud,  so  long,  that  the  woods 
echoed  it,  and  the  deer,  taking  alarm,  fled  like  the 
wind.  The  howl  came  from  the  dog,  and,  as  that 
animal  usually  showed  sagacity  in  the  presence  of 
game,  the  hunter  was  seized  with  a  fear  that  its  form 
was  occupied,  for  the  time,  by  a  hag  who  lived  alone 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

in  the  "north  woods,"  and  who  was  reputed  to  have 
appeared  in  many  shapes — for  this  was  not  so  long 
after  witch  times  that  their  influence  was  forgotten. 

Drawing  his  ramrod,  the  man  gave  his  dog  such  a 
beating  that  the  poor  creature  had  something  worth 
howling  for,  because  it  might  be  the  witch  that  he 
was  thrashing.  Then  running  to  the  shanty  of  the 
suspected  woman  he  flung  open  her  door  and  de- 
manded to  see  her  back,  for,  if  she  had  really 
changed  her  shape,  every  blow  that  he  had  given 
to  the  dog  would  have  been  scored  on  her  skin. 
When  he  had  made  his  meaning  clear,  the  crone 
laid  hold  on  the  implement  that  served  her  for  horse 
at  night,  and  with  the  wooden  end  of  it  rained  blows 
on  him  so  rapidly  that,  if  the  dog  had  had  half  the 
meanness  in  his  nature  that  some  people  have,  the 
spectacle  would  have  warmed  his  heart,  for  it  was  a 
prompt  and  severe  revenge  for  his  sufferings.  And 
to  the  last  the  hunter  could  not  decide  whether  the 
beating  that  he  received  was  prompted  by  indigna- 
tion or  vengeance. 

WIZARD'S   GLEN 

FOUR    miles    from    Pittsfield,    Massachusetts, 
among  the  Berkshire  Hills,  is  a  wild  valley, 
noted  for  its  echoes,  that  for  a  century  and  more 
has  been  called  Wizard's  Glen.     Here  the  Indian 
priests    performed    their    incantations,   and    on    the 
red-stained  Devil's  Altar,  it  was  said,  they  offered 
291 


Myths  and  Legends 

human  sacrifice  to  Hobomocko  and  his  demons  of 
the  wood.  In  Berkshire's  early  days  a  hunter, 
John  Chamberlain,  of  Dalton,  who  had  killed  a 
deer  and  was  carrying  it  home  on  his  shoulders,  was 
overtaken  on  the  hills  by  a  storm  and  took  shelter 
from  it  in  a  cavernous  recess  in  Wizard's  Glen.  In 
spite  of  his  fatigue  he  was  unable  to  sleep,  and 
while  lying  on  the  earth  with  open  eyes  he  was 
amazed  to  see  the  wood  bend  apart  before  him,  dis- 
closing a  long  aisle  that  was  mysteriously  lighted  and 
that  contained  hundreds  of  capering  forms.  As  his 
eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  faint  light  he  made  out 
tails  and  cloven  feet  on  the  dancing  figures  ;  and  one 
tall  form  with  wings,  around  whose  head  a  wreath 
of  lightning  glittered,  and  who  received  the  defer- 
ence of  the  rest,  he  surmised  to  be  the  devil  himself. 
It  was  such  a  night  and  such  a  place  as  Satan  and  his 
imps  commonly  chose  for  high  festivals. 

As  he  lay  watching  them  through  the  sheeted  rain 
a  tall  and  painted  Indian  leaped  on  Devil's  Altar, 
fresh  scalps  dangling  round  his  body  in  festoons,  and 
his  eyes  blazing  with  fierce  command.  In  a  brief 
incantation  he  summoned  the  shadow  hordes  around 
him.  They  came,  with  torches  that  burned  blue, 
and  went  around  and  around  the  rock  singing  a  harsh 
chant,  until,  at  a  sign,  an  Indian  girl  was  dragged  in 
and  flung  on  the  block  of  sacrifice.  The  figures 
rushed  toward  her  with  extended  arms  and  weapons, 
and  the  terrified  girl  gave  one  cry  that  rang  in  the 
hunter's  ears  all  his  life  after.  The  wizard  raised 
292 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

his  axe :  the  devils  and  vampires  gathered  to  drink 
the  blood  and  clutch  the  escaping  soul,  when  in  a 
lightning  flash  the  girl's  despairing  glance  fell  on 
the  face  of  Chamberlain.  That  look  touched  his 
manhood,  and  drawing  forth  his  Bible  he  held  it 
toward  the  rabble  while  he  cried  aloud  the  name 
of  God.  There  was  a  crash  of  thunder.  The 
light  faded,  the  demons  vanished,  the  storm  swept 
past,  and  peace  settled  on  the  hills. 

BALANCED   ROCK 

BALANCED  ROCK,  or  Rolling  Rock,  near 
Pittsfield,  Massachusetts,  is  a  mass  of  lime- 
stone that  was  deposited  where  it  stands  by  the 
great  continental  glacier  during  the  ice  age,  and  it 
weighs  four  hundred  and  eighty  tons  (estimated)  in 
spite  of  its  centuries  of  weathering.  Here  one  of 
the  Atotarhos,  kings  of  the  Six  Nations,  had  his 
camp.  He  was  a  fierce  man,  who  ate  and  drank 
from  bowls  made  of  the  skulls  of  enemies,  and  who, 
when  he  received  messages  and  petitions,  wreathed 
himself  from  head  to  foot  with  poison  snakes.  The 
son  of  this  ferocious  being  inherited  none  of  his 
war-like  tendencies;  indeed,  the  lad  was  almost 
feminine  in  appearance,  and  on  succeeding  to  power 
he  applied  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  peaceful 
arts.  Later  historians  have  uttered  a  suspicion  that 
he  was  a  natural  son  of  Count  Frontenac,  but  that 
does  not  suit  with  this  legend. 
293 


Myths  and  Legends 

The  young  Atotarho  stood  near  Balanced  Rock 
watching  a  number  of  big  boys  play  duff.  In  this 
game  one  stone  is  placed  upon  another  and  the 
players,  standing  as  far  from  it  as  they  fancy  they 
can  throw,  attempt  to  knock  it  out  of  place  with 
other  stones.  The  silence  of  Atotarho  and  his 
slender,  girlish  look  called  forth  rude  remarks  from 
the  boys,  who  did  not  know  him,  and  who  dared 
him  to  test  his  skill.  The  young  chief  came  for- 
ward, and  as  he  did  so  the  jeers  and  laughter  changed 
to  cries  of  astonishment  and  fear,  for  at  each  step 
he  grew  in  size  until  he  towered  above  them,  a 
giant.  Then  they  knew  him,  and  fell  down  in 
dread,  but  he  took  no  revenge.  Catching  up  great 
bowlders  he  tossed  them  around  as  easily  as  if  they 
had  been  beechnuts,  and  at  last,  lifting  the  balanced 
rock,  he  placed  it  lightly  where  it  stands  to-day, 
gave  them  a  caution  against  ill  manners  and  hasty 
judgments,  and  resumed  his  slender  form.  For 
many  years  after,  the  old  men  of  the  tribe  repeated 
this  story  and  its  lesson  from  the  top  of  Atotarho's 
duff. 


SHONKEEK-MOONKEEK 

THIS  is  the  Mohegan  name  of  the  pretty  lake 
in    the    Berkshires    now    called    Pontoosuc. 
Shonkeek  was   a   boy,  Moonkeek  a  girl,  and   they 
were  cousins  who  grew  up  as  children  commonly 
do,  whether  in  house  or  wigwam  :  they  roamed  the 
294 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

woods  and  hills  together,  filled  their  baskets  with 
flowers  and  berries,  and  fell  in  love.  But  the  mar- 
riage of  cousins  was  forbidden  in  the  Mohegan 
polity,  and  when  they  reached  an  age  in  which  they 
found  companionship  most  delightful  their  rambles 
were  interdicted  and  they  were  even  told  to  avoid 
each  other.  This  had  the  usual  effect,  and  they 
met  on  islands  in  the  lake  at  frequent  intervals,  to 
the  torment  of  one  Nockawando,  who  wished  to 
wed  the  girl  himself,  and  who  reported  her  conduct 
to  her  parents. 

The  lovers  agreed,  after  this,  to  fly  to  an  Eastern 
tribe  into  which  they  would  ask  to  be  adopted,  but 
they  were  pledged,  if  aught  interfered  with  their 
escape,  to  meet  beneath  the  lake.  Nockawando 
interfered.  On  the  next  night,  as  the  unsuspecting 
Shonkeek  was  paddling  over  to  the  island  where  the 
maid  awaited  him,  the  jealous  rival,  rowing  softly 
in  his  wake,  sent  an  arrow  into  his  back,  and  Shon- 
keek, without  a  cry,  pitched  headlong  into  the  water. 
Yet,  to  the  eyes  of  Nockawando,  he  appeared  to 
keep  his  seat  and  urge  his  canoe  forward.  The  girl 
saw  the  boat  approach :  it  sped,  now,  like  an  eagle's 
flight.  One  look,  as  it  passed  the  rock  ;  one  glance 
at  the  murderer,  crouching  in  his  birchen  vessel, 
and  with  her  lover's  name  on  her  lips  she  leaped 
into  her  own  canoe  and  pushed  out  from  shore. 
Nockawando  heard  her  raise  the  death-song  and 
rowed  forward  as  rapidly  as  he  could,  but  near  the 
middle  of  the  lake  his  arm  fell  palsied. 
295 


Myths  and  Legends 

The  song  had  ended  and  the  night  had  become 
strangely,  horribly  still.  Not  a  chirp  of  cricket, 
not  a  lap  of  wave,  not  a  rustle  of  leaf.  Motionless 
the  girl  awaited,  for  his  boat  was  still  moving  by 
the  impetus  of  his  last  stroke  of  the  paddle.  The 
evening  star  was  shining  low  on  the  horizon,  and  as 
her  figure  loomed  in  the  darkness  the  star  shone 
through  at  the  point  where  her  eye  had  looked 
forth.  It  was  no  human  creature  that  sat  there. 
Then  came  the  dead  man's  boat.  The  two  shadows 
rowed  noiselessly  together,  and  as  they  disappeared 
in  the  mist  that  was  now  settling  on  the  landscape, 
an  unearthly  laugh  rang  over  the  lake ;  then  all  was 
still.  When  Nockawando  reached  the  camp  that 
night  he  was  a  raving  maniac.  The  Indians  never 
found  the  bodies  of  the  pair,  but  they  believed  that 
while  water  remains  in  Pontoosuc  its  surface  will  be 
vexed  by  these  journeys  of  the  dead. 

THE   SALEM   ALCHEMIST 

IN   1720  there  lived  in  a  turreted  house  at  North 
and   Essex   Streets,  in    Salem,  a    silent,  dark- 
visaged    man, — a    reputed    chemist.     He    gathered 
simples  in  the  fields,  and  parcels  and  bottles  came 
and  went  between  him  and  learned  doctors  in  Bos- 
ton ;  but  report  went  around  that  it  was  not  drugs 
alone  that  he  worked  with,  nor  medicines  for  pass- 
ing  ailments    that    he    distilled.       The    watchman, 
drowsily  pacing  the  streets  in  the  small  hours,  saw 
296 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

his  shadow  move  athwart  the  furnace  glare  in  his 
tower,  and  other  shadows  seemed  at  the  moment  to 
flit  about  it — shadows  that  could  be  thrown  by  no 
tangible  form,  yet  that  had  a  grotesque  likeness  to 
the  human  kind.  A  clink  of  hammers  and  a  hiss 
of  steam  were  sometimes  heard,  and  his  neighbors 
devoutly  hoped  that  if  he  secured  the  secret  of 
the  philosopher's  stone  or  the  universal  solvent,  it 
would  be  honestly  come  by. 

But  it  was  neither  gold  nor  the  perilous  strong 
water  that  he  wanted.  It  was  life :  the  elixir  that 
would  dispel  the  chill  and  decrepitude  of  age,  that 
would  bring  back  the  youthful  sparkle  to  the  eye  and 
set  the  pulses  bounding.  He  explored  the  surround- 
ing wilderness  day  after  day ;  the  juices  of  its  trees 
and  plants  he  compounded,  night  after  night,  long 
without  avail.  Not  until  after  a  thousand  failures 
did  he  conceive  that  he  had  secured  the  ingredients : 
but  they  were  many,  they  were  perishable,  they 
must  be  distilled  within  five  days,  for  fermentation 
and  decay  would  set  in  if  he  delayed  longer.  Gath- 
ering the  herbs  and  piling  his  floor  with  fuel,  he 
began  his  work,  alone ;  the  furnace  glowed,  the 
retorts  bubbled,  and  through  their  long  throats 
trickled  drops — golden,  ruddy,  brown,  and  crystal — 
that  would  be  combined  into  that  precious  draught. 

And  none  too  soon,  for  under  the  strain  of  anx- 
iety he  seemed  to  be  aging  fast.  He  took  no  sleep, 
except  while  sitting  upright  in  his  chair,  for,  should 
he  yield  entirely  to  nature's  appeal,  his  fire  would 


Myths  and  Legends 

die  and  his  work  be  spoiled.  With  heavy  eyes  and 
aching  head  he  watched  his  furnace  and  listened  to 
the  constant  drip,  drip  of  the  precious  liquor.  It 
was  the  fourth  day.  He  had  knelt  to  stir  his  fire  to 
more  active  burning.  Its  brightness  made  him  blink, 
its  warmth  was  grateful,  and  he  reclined  before  it, 
with  elbow  on  the  floor  and  head  resting  on  his 
hand.  How  cheerily  the  logs  hummed  and  crackled, 
yet  how  drowsily — how  slow  the  hours  were — how 
dull  the  watch !  Lower,  lower  sank  the  head,  and 
heavier  grew  the  eyes.  At  last  he  lay  full  length 
on  the  floor,  and  the  long  sleep  of  exhaustion  had 
begun. 

He  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  a  bell.  "  The 
church  bell !"  he  cried,  starting  up.  "  And  people 
going  through  the  streets  to  meeting.  How  is  this? 
The  sun  is  in  the  east !  My  God !  I  have  been 
asleep !  The  furnace  is  cold.  The  elixir !"  He 
hastily  blended  the  essences  that  he  had  made, 
though  one  or  two  ingredients  were  still  lacking, 
and  drank  them  off.  "  Faugh !"  he  exclaimed. 
"Still  unfinished — perhaps  spoiled.  I  must  begin 
again."  Taking  his  hat  and  coat  he  uttered  a  weary 
sigh  and  was  about  to  open  the  door  when  his  cheek 
blenched  with  pain,  sight  seemed  to  leave  him,  the 
cry  for  help  that  rose  to  his  lips  was  stifled  in  a 
groan  of  anguish,  a  groping  gesture  brought  a  shelf 
of  retorts  and  bottles  to  the  floor,  and  he  fell  writhing 
among  their  fragments.  The  elixir  of  life,  unfin- 
ished, was  an  elixir  of  death. 
298 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

ELIZA    WHARTON 

T  TNDER  the  name  of  Eliza  Wharton  for  a 
V_y  brief  time  lived  a  woman  whose  name  was 
said  to  be  Elizabeth  Whitman.  Little  is  known  of 
her,  and  it  is  thought  that  she  had  gone  among 
strangers  to  conceal  disgrace.  She  died  without 
telling  her  story.  In  1788  she  arrived  at  the  Bell 
Tavern,  Danvers,  in  company  with  a  man,  who, 
after  seeing  her  properly  bestowed,  drove  away  and 
never  returned.  A  graceful,  beautiful,  well-bred 
woman,  with  face  overcast  by  a  tender  melancholy, 
she  kept  indoors  with  her  books,  her  sewing,  and  a 
guitar,  avoiding  the  gossip  of  the  idle.  She  said 
that  her  husband  was  absent  on  a  journey,  and  a 
letter  addressed  to  "  Mrs.  Eliza  Wharton"  was  to 
be  seen  on  her  table  when  she  received  callers. 
Once  a  stranger  paused  at  her  door  and  read  the 
name  thereon.  As  he  passed  on  the  woman  groaned, 
"  I  am  undone  !"  One  good  woman,  seeing  her  need 
of  care  and  defiant  of  village  prattling,  took  her  to 
her  home,  and  there,  after  giving  birth  to  a  dead 
child,  she  passed  away.  Among  her  effects  were  let- 
ters full  of  pathetic  appeal,  and  some  verses,  closing 
thus : 

"  O  thou  for  whose  dear  sake  I  bear 
A  doom  so  dreadful,  so  severe, 
May  happy  fates  thy  footsteps  guide 
And  o'er  thy  peaceful  home  preside. 
Nor  let  Eliza's  early  tomb 
Infect  thee  with  its  baleful  gloom." 
299 


Myths  and  Legends 

A  stone  was  raised  above  her  grave,  by  whom  it 
is  not  known,  and  this  inscription  was  engraved 
thereon :  "  This  humble  stone,  in  memory  of 
Elizabeth  Whitman,  is  inscribed  by  her  weeping 
friends,  to  whom  she  endeared  herself  by  uncom- 
mon tenderness  and  affection.  Endowed  with 
superior  genius  and  acquirements,  she  was  still  more 
endeared  by  humility  and  benevolence.  Let  candor 
throw  a  veil  over  her  frailties,  for  great  was  her 
charity  for  others.  She  sustained  the  last  painful 
scene  far  from  every  friend,  and  exhibited  an  ex- 
ample of  calm  resignation.  Her  departure  was  on 
the  25th  of  July,  1788,  in  the  thirty-seventh  year  of 
her  age,  and  the  tears  of  strangers  watered  her  grave." 

SALE   OF   THE   SOUTHWICKS 

BITTER  were  the  persecutions  endured  by 
Quakers  at  the  hands  of  the  Puritans.  They 
were  flogged  if  they  were  restless  in  church,  and 
flogged  if  they  did  not  go  to  it.  Their  ears  were 
slit  and  they  were  set  in  the  stocks  if  they  preached, 
and  if  any  tender-hearted  person  gave  them  bed, 
bite,  or  sup,  he,  too,  was  liable  to  punishment. 
They  were  charged  with  the  awful  offence  of 
preaching  false  doctrine,  and  no  matter  how  pure 
their  lives  might  be,  the  stern  Salemite  would  con- 
cede no  good  of  them  while  their  faith  was  different 
from  his.  They  even  suspected  Cobbler  Keezar  of 
mischief  when  he  declared  that  his  magic  lapstone — 
300 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

which  Agrippa  had  torn  from  the  tower  at  Nettes- 
heim — gave  him  a  vision  of  the  time  when  men 
would  be  as  glad  as  nature,  when  the  "  snuffler  of 
psalms"  would  sing  for  joy,  when  priests  and  Quakers 
would  talk  together  kindly,  when  pillory  and  gallows 
should  be  gone.  Poor  Keezar !  In  ecstasy  at  that 
prospect  he  flung  up  his  arms,  and  his  lapstone  rolled 
into  the  Merrimack.  The  tired  mill-girls  of  Lowell 
still  frequent  the  spot  to  seek  some  dim  vision  of 
future  comfort. 

In  contrast  to  the  tales  of  habitual  tyranny  toward 
the  Quakers  is  the  tradition  of  the  Southwicks. 
Lawrence  and  Cassandra,  of  that  name,  were  ban- 
ished from  Salem,  in  spite  of  their  blameless  lives, 
for  they  had  embraced  Quakerism.  They  died 
within  three  days  of  each  other  on  Shelter  Island, 
but  their  son  and  daughter,  Daniel  and  Provided, 
returned  to  their  birthplace,  and  were  incessantly 
fined  for  not  going  to  church.  At  last,  having  lost 
their  property  through  seizures  made  to  satisfy  their 
fines,  the  General  Court  of  Boston  issued  an  order 
for  their  sale,  as  slaves,  to  any  Englishman  of  Vir- 
ginia or  Barbadoes.  Edward  Butter  was  assigned  to 
sell  and  take  them  to  their  master.  The  day  arrived 
and  Salem  market-place  was  crowded  with  a  throng 
of  the  curious.  Provided  Southwick  mounted  the 
block  and  Butter  began  to  call  for  bids.  While  ex- 
patiating on  the  aptness  of  the  girl  for  field-  or  house- 
service,  the  master  of  the  Barbadoes  ship  on  which 
Butter  had  engaged  passage  for  himself  and  his  two 
301 


Myths  and  Legends 

charges  looked  into  her  innocent  face,  and  roared,  in 
noble  dudgeon,  "  If  my  ship  were  filled  with  silver, 
by  God,  I'd  sink  her  in  harbor  rather  than  take  away 
this  child !"  The  multitude  experienced  a  quick 
change  of  feeling  and  applauded  the  sentiment.  As 
the  judges  and  officers  trudged  away  with  gloomy 
faces,  Provided  Southwick  descended  from  the  auc- 
tion-block, and  brother  and  sister  went  forth  into 
the  town  free  and  unharmed. 


THE  COURTSHIP  OF  MYLES  STANDISH 

MYLES  STANDISH,  compact,  hard-headed 
little  captain  of  the  Puritan  guard  at 
Plymouth,  never  knew  the  meaning  of  fear  until 
he  went  a-courting  Priscilla  Mullins — or  was  she  a 
Molines,  as  some  say  ?  He  had  fought  white  men 
and  red  men  and  never  recked  of  danger  in  the 
doing  it,  but  his  courage  sank  to  his  boots  when- 
ever this  demure  maiden  glanced  at  him,  as  he 
thought,  with  approval.  Odd,  too,  for  he  had  been 
married  once,  and  Rose  was  not  so  long  dead  that 
he  had  forgotten  the  ways  and  likings  of  women ; 
but  he  made  no  progress  in  his  suit,  and  finally 
chose  John  Alden  to  urge  it  for  him.  John — who 
divides  with  Mary  Chilton  the  honor  of  being  first 
to  land  on  Plymouth  Rock — was  a  well-favored  lad 
of  twenty-two.  Until  he  could  build  a  house  for 
himself  he  shared  Standish's  cottage  and  looked  up 
to  that  worthy  as  a  guardian,  but  it  was  a  hard  task 
302 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

that  was  set  for  him  now.  He  went  to  goodman 
Mullins  with  a  slow  step  and  sober  countenance  and 
asked  leave  to  plead  his  protector's  cause.  The 
father  gave  it,  called  his  daughter  in,  and  left  them 
together ;  then,  with  noble  faith  to  his  mission,  the 
young  man  begged  the  maiden's  hand  for  the  cap- 
tain, dwelling  on  his  valor,  strength,  wisdom,  his 
military  greatness,  his  certainty  of  promotion,  his 
noble  lineage,  and  all  good  attributes  he  could  endow 
him  with. 

Priscilla  kept  at  her  spinning  while  this  harangue 
went  on,  but  the  drone  of  the  wheel  did  not  prevent 
her  noting  a  sigh  and  a  catch  of  the  breath  that  in- 
terrupted the  discourse  now  and  then.  She  flushed 
as  she  replied,  "  Why  does  not  Captain  Standish 
come  to  me  himself?  If  I  am  worth  the  winning 
I  ought  to  be  worth  the  wooing." 

But  John  Alden  seemed  not  to  notice  the  girl's 
confusion  until,  in  a  pause  in  his  eloquence,  Priscilla 
bent  her  head  a  little,  as  if  to  mend  a  break  in  the 
flax,  and  said,  "  Prithee,  John,  why  don't  you  speak 
for  yourself?" 

Then  a  great  light  broke  on  the  understanding  of 
John  Alden,  and  a  great  warmth  welled  up  in  his 
heart,  and — they  were  married.  Myles  Standish — 
well,  some  say  that  he  walked  in  the  wedding  pro- 
cession, while  one  narrator  holds  that  the  sturdy 
Roundhead  tramped  away  to  the  woods,  where  he 
sat  for  a  day,  hating  himself,  and  that  he  never  for- 
gave his  protege  nor  the  maiden  who  took  advantage 
303 


Myths  and  Legends 

of  leap  year.  However  that  may  be,  the  wedding 
was  a  happy  one,  and  the  Aldens  of  all  America 
claim  John  and  Priscilla  for  their  ancestors. 


MOTHER    CREWE 

MOTHER  CREWE  was  of  evil  repute  in 
Plymouth  in  the  last  century.  It  was  said 
that  she  had  taken  pay  for  luring  a  girl  into  her  old 
farm-house,  where  a  man  lay  dead  of  small-pox, 
with  intent  to  harm  her  beauty ;  she  was  accused  of 
blighting  land  and  driving  ships  ashore  with  spells ; 
in  brief,  she  was  called  a  witch,  and  people,  even 
those  who  affected  to  ignore  the  craft  of  wizardry, 
were  content  to  keep  away  from  her.  When  the 
Revolution  ended,  Southward  Howland  demanded 
Dame  Crewe's  house  and  acre,  claiming  under  law 
of  entail,  though  primogeniture  had  been  little  en- 
forced in  America,  where  there  was  room  and  to 
spare  for  all.  But  Howland  was  stubborn  and  the 
woman's  house  had  good  situation,  so  one  day  he 
rode  to  her  door  and  summoned  her  with  a  tap  of 
his  whip. 

"  What  do  you  here  on  my  land  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  live  on  land  that  is  my  own.  I  cleared  it, 
built  my  house  here,  and  no  other  has  claim  to  it." 

"  Then  I  lay  claim.  The  place  is  mine.  I  shall 
tear  your  cabin  down  on  Friday." 

"  On  Friday  they'll  dig  your  grave  on  Burying 
Hill.  I  see  the  shadow  closing  round  you.  You 
304 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

draw  it  in  with  every  breath.  Quick  !  Home  and 
make  your  peace!"  The  hag's  withered  face  was 
touched  with  spots  of  red  and  her  eyes  glared  in 
their  sunken  sockets. 

"  Bandy  no  witch  words  with  me,  woman.  On 
Friday  I  will  return."  And  he  swung  himself  into 
his  saddle.  As  he  did  so  a  black  cat  leaped  on 
Mother  Crewe's  shoulder  and  stood  there,  squalling. 
The  woman  listened  to  its  cries  as  if  they  were 
words.  Her  look  of  hate  deepened.  Raising  her 
hand,  she  cried,  "  Your  day  is  near  its  end.  Re- 
pent !" 

"  Bah  !  You  have  heard  what  I  have  said.  If  on 
Friday  you  are  not  elsewhere,  I'll  tear  the  timbers 
down  and  bury  you  in  the  ruins." 

"  Enough  !"  cried  the  woman,  her  form  straight- 
ening, her  voice  grown  shrill.  "  My  curse  is  on 
you  here  and  hereafter.  Die !  Then  go  down  to 
hell !" 

As  she  said  this  the  cat  leaped  from  her  shoulder 
to  the  flank  of  the  horse,  spitting  and  clawing,  and 
the  frightened  steed  set  off  at  a  furious  pace.  As  he 
disappeared  in  the  scrub  oaks  his  master  was  seen 
vainly  trying  to  stop  him.  The  evening  closed  in 
with  fog  and  chill,  and  before  the  light  waned  a 
man  faring  homeward  came  upon  the  corpse  of 
Southward  Howland  stretched  along  the  ground. 


305 


Myths  and  Legends 

AUNT   RACHEL'S   CURSE 

ON  a  headland  near  Plymouth  lived  "  Aunt 
Rachel,"  a  reputed  seer,  who  made  a  scant 
livelihood  by  forecasting  the  future  for  such  sea- 
going people  as  had  crossed  her  palm.  The  crew 
of  a  certain  brig  came  to  see  her  on  the  day  before 
sailing,  and  she  reproached  one  of  the  lads  for  keep- 
ing bad  company.  "  Avast,  there,  granny,"  inter- 
rupted another,  who  took  the  chiding  to  himself. 
"  None  of  your  slack,  or  I'll  put  a  stopper  on  your 
gab."  The  old  woman  sprang  erect.  Levelling 
her  skinny  finger  at  the  man,  she  screamed,  "  Moon 
cursers !  You  have  set  false  beacons  and  wrecked 
ships  for  plunder.  It  was  your  fathers  and  mothers 
who  decoyed  a  brig  to  these  sands  and  left  me  child- 
less and  a  widow.  He  who  rides  the  pale  horse  be 
your  guide,  and  you  be  of  the  number  who  follow 
him !" 

That  night  old  Rachel's  house  was  burned,  and 
she  barely  escaped  with  her  life,  but  when  it  was 
time  for  the  brig  to  sail  she  took  her  place  among 
the  townfolk  who  were  to  see  it  off.  The  owner  of 
the  brig  tried  to  console  her  for  the  loss  of  the  house. 
"  I  need  it  no  longer,"  she  answered,  "  for  the  nar- 
row house  will  soon  be  mine,  and  you  wretches 
cannot  burn  that.  But  you !  Who  will  console 
you  for  the  loss  of  your  brig  ?" 

"  My  brig  is  stanch.  She  has  already  passed  the 
worst  shoal  in  the  bay." 

306 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

"  But  she  carries  a  curse.  She  cannot  swim 
long." 

As  each  successive  rock  and  bar  was  passed  the 
old  woman  leaned  forward,  her  hand  shaking,  her 
gray  locks  flying,  her  eyes  starting,  her  lips  mum- 
bling maledictions,  "  like  an  evil  spirit,  chiding  forth 
the  storms  as  ministers  of  vengeance."  The  last 
shoal  was  passed,  the  merchant  sighed  with  relief  at 
seeing  the  vessel  now  safely  on  her  course,  when  the 
woman  uttered  a  harsh  cry,  and  raised  her  hand  as 
if  to  command  silence  until  something  happened  that 
she  evidently  expected.  For  this  the  onlookers  had 
not  long  to  wait :  the  brig  halted  and  trembled — her 
sails  shook  in  the  wind,  her  crew  were  seen  trying  to 
free  the  cutter — then  she  careened  and  sank  until 
only  her  mast-heads  stood  out  of  the  water.  Most 
of  the  company  ran  for  boats  and  lines,  and  few  saw 
Rachel  pitch  forward  on  the  earth — dead,  with  a 
fierce  smile  of  exultation  on  her  face.  The  res- 
cuers came  back  with  all  the  crew,  save  one — the 
man  who  had  challenged  the  old  woman  and  re- 
vengefully burned  her  cabin.  Rachel's  body  was 
buried  where  her  house  had  stood,  and  the  rock — 
before  unknown — where  the  brig  had  broken  long 
bore  the  name  of  Rachel's  Curse. 


307 


Myths  and  Legends 

NIX'S   MATE 

THE  black,  pyramidal  beacon,  called  Nix's 
Mate,  is  well  known  to  yachtsmen,  sailors, 
and  excursionists  in  Boston  harbor.  It  rises  above 
a  shoal, — all  that  is  left  of  a  fair,  green  island 
which  long  ago  disappeared  in  the  sea.  In  1636 
it  had  an  extent  of  twelve  acres,  and  on  its  highest 
point  was  a  gallows  where  pirates  were  hanged 
in  chains.  One  night  cries  were  heard  on  board 
of  a  ship  that  lay  at  anchor  a  little  way  off  shore, 
and  when  the  watch  put  off,  to  see  what  might  be 
amiss,  the  captain,  named  Nix,  was  found  murdered 
in  his  bed.  There  was  no  direct  evidence  in  the 
case,  and  no  motive  could  be  assigned  for  the  deed, 
unless  it  was  the  expectancy  of  promotion  on  the 
part  of  the  mate,  in  case  of  his  commander's  death. 
It  was  found,  however,  that  this  possibility  gave 
significance  to  certain  acts  and  sayings  of  that  officer 
during  the  voyage,  and  on  circumstantial  evidence  so 
slight  as  this  he  was  convicted  and  sentenced  to 
death.  As  he  was  led  to  execution  he  swore  that 
he  was  not  guilty,  as  he  had  done  before,  and  from 
the  scaffold  he  cried  aloud,  "  God,  show  that  I  am 
innocent.  Let  this  island  sink  and  prove  to  these 
people  that  I  have  never  stained  my  hands  with 
human  blood."  Soon  after  the  execution  of  his 
sentence  it  was  noticed  that  the  surf  was  going 
higher  on  the  shore,  that  certain  rocks  were  no 
longer  uncovered  at  low  tide,  and  in  time  the  island 
308 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

wasted  away.  The  colonists  looked  with  awe  on 
this  manifestation  and  confessed  that  God  had 
shown  their  wrong. 

THE  WILD   MAN   OF   CAPE   COD 

FOR  years  after  Bellamy's  pirate  ship  was 
wrecked  at  Wellfleet,  by  false  pilotage  on 
the  part  of  one  of  his  captives,  a  strange-looking  man 
used  to  travel  up  and  down  the  cape,  who  was  be- 
lieved to  be.  one  of  the  few  survivors  of  that  night 
of  storm,  and  of  the  hanging  that  others  underwent 
after  getting  ashore.  The  pirates  had  money  when 
the  ship  struck ;  it  was  found  in  the  pockets  of  a 
hundred  drowned  who  were  cast  on  the  beach,  as 
well  as  among  the  sands  of  the  cape,  for  coin  was 
gathered  there  long  after.  They  supposed  the 
stranger  had  his  share,  or  more,  and  that  he  secreted 
a  quantity  of  specie  near  his  cabin.  After  his  death 
gold  was  found  under  his  clothing  in  a  girdle.  He 
was  often  received  at  the  houses  of  the  fishermen, 
both  because  the  people  were  hospitable  and  be- 
cause they  feared  harm  if  they  refused  to  feed  or 
shelter  him ;  but  if  his  company  grew  wearisome 
he  was  exorcised  by  reading  aloud  a  portion  of  the 
Bible.  When  he  heard  the  holy  words  he  invariably 
departed. 

And  it  was  said  that  fiends  came  to  him  at  night, 
for  in  his  room,  whether  he  appeared  to  sleep  or 
wake,  there  were  groans  and  blasphemy,  uncanny 
309 


Myths  and  Legends 

words  and  sounds  that  stirred  the  hair  of  listeners 
on  their  scalps.  The  unhappy  creature  cried  to  be 
delivered  from  his  tormenters  and  begged  to  be 
spared  from  seeing  a  rehearsal  of  the  murders  he 
had  committed.  For  some  time  he  was  missed  from 
his  haunts,  and  it  was  thought  that  he  had  secured  a 
ship  and  set  to  sea  again ;  but  a  traveller  on  the 
sands,  while  passing  his  cabin  in  the  small  hours, 
had  heard  a  more  than  usual  commotion,  and  could 
distinguish  the  voice  of  the  wild  man  raised  in 
frantic  appeal  to  somebody,  or  something ;  still, 
knowing  that  it  was  his  habit  to  cry  out  so,  and 
having  misgivings  about  approaching  the  house,  the 
traveller  only  hurried  past.  A  few  neighbors  went 
to  the  lonely  cabin  and  looked  through  the  windows, 
which,  as  well  as  the  doors,  were  locked  on  the  in- 
side. The  wild  man  lay  still  and  white  on  the  floor, 
with  the  furniture  upset  and  pieces  of  gold  clutched 
in  his  fingers  and  scattered  about  him.  There  were 
marks  of  claws  about  his  neck. 

NEWBURY'S   OLD   ELM 

AMONG  the  venerable  relics  of  Newbury  few 
are  better  known  and  more  prized  than  the 
old  elm.     It  is  a  stout  tree,  with  a  girth  of  twenty- 
four  and  a  half  feet,  and  is  said  to  have  been  stand- 
ing  since   1713.     In   that    year   it  was   planted   by 
Richard  Jacques,  then  a  youthful  rustic,  who  had  a 
sweetheart,  as  all  rustics  have,  and   adored   her  as 
310 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

rustics  and  other  men  should  do.  On  one  of  his 
visits  he  stayed  uncommonly  late.  It  was  nearly  ten 
o'clock  when  he  set  off  for  home.  The  town  had 
been  abed  an  hour  or  more ;  the  night  was  murky 
and  oppressively  still,  and  corpse-candles  were 
dancing  in  the  graveyard.  Witch  times  had  not 
been  so  far  agone  that  he  felt  comfortable,  and,  lest 
some  sprite,  bogie,  troll,  or  goblin  should  waylay 
him,  he  tore  an  elm  branch  from  a  tree  that  grew 
before  his  sweetheart's  house,  and  flourished  it  as  he 
walked.  He  reached  home  without  experiencing 
any  of  the  troubles  that  a  superstitious  fancy  had 
conjured.  As  he  was  about  to  cast  the  branch  away 
a  comforting  vision  of  his  loved  one  came  into  his 
mind,  and  he  determined  to  plant  the  branch  at  his 
own  door,  that  in  the  hours  of  their  separation  he 
might  be  reminded  of  her  who  dwelt  beneath  the 
parent  tree.  He  did  so.  It  rooted  and  grew,  and 
when  the  youth  and  maid  had  long  been  married, 
their  children  and  grandchildren  sported  beneath 
its  branches. 

SAMUEL  SEWALL'S   PROPHECY 

THE  peace  of  Newbury  is  deemed  to  be  per- 
manently secured  by  the  prophecy  of  Samuel 
Sewall,  the    young    man  who   married   the   buxom 
daughter  of  Mint-Master  John  Hull,  and  received, 
as  wedding  portion,  her  weight  in  fresh-coined  pine- 
tree  shillings.     He  afterward  became  notorious   as 
311 


Myths  and  Legends 

one  of  the  witchcraft  judges.  The  prophecy  has  not 
been  countervailed,  nor  is  it  likely  to  be,  whether 
the  conditions  are  kept  or  not.  It  runs  in  this  wise  : 
"  As  long  as  Plum  island  shall  faithfully  keep  the 
commanded  Post,  Notwithstanding  the  hectoring 
words  and  hard  blows  of  the  proud  and  boisterous 
ocean ;  As  long  as  any  Salmon  or  Sturgeon  shall 
swim  in  the  streams  of  Merrimack,  or  any  Perch  or 
Pickeril  in  Crane  Pond ;  As  long  as  the  Sea  Fowl 
shall  know  the  time  of  their  coming,  and  not  neglect 
seasonably  to  visit  the  places  of  their  acquaintance ; 
As  long  as  any  Cattel  shall  be  fed  with  Grass  grow- 
ing in  the  meadows  which  doe  humbly  bow  them- 
selves before  Turkic  Hill ;  As  long  as  any  Sheep 
shall  walk  upon  Old  town  Hills,  and  shall  from 
thence  look  pleasantly  down  upon  the  River  Parker 
and  the  fruitful  Marishes  lying  beneath ;  As  long  as 
any  free  and  harmless  Doves  shall  find  a  White  Oak 
or  other  Tree  within  the  township  to  perch  or  feed, 
or  build  a  careless  Nest  upon,  and  shall  voluntarily 
present  themselves  to  perform  the  office  of  Gleaners 
after  Barley  Harvest;  As  long  as  Nature  shall  not 
grow  old  and  dote,  but  shall  constantly  remember  to 
give  the  rows  of  Indian  Corn  their  education  by  Pairs 
— So  long  shall  Christians  be  born  there  and  being 
first  made  meet,  shall  from  thence  be  translated  to  be 
made  partakers  of  the  Saints  of  Light." 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

THE   SHRIEKING  WOMAN 

DURING  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth 
century  a  Spanish  ship,  richly  laden,  was 
beset  off  Marblehead  by  English  pirates,  who  killed 
every  person  on  board,  at  the  time  of  the  capture, 
except  a  beautiful  English  lady,  a  passenger  on  the 
ship,  who  was  brought  ashore  at  night  and  brutally 
murdered  at  a  ledge  of  rocks  near  Oakum  Bay.  As 
the  fishermen  who  lived  near  were  absent  in  their 
boats,  the  women  and  children,  who  were  startled 
from  their  sleep  by  her  piercing  shrieks,  dared  not 
attempt  a  rescue.  Taking  her  a  little  way  from 
shore  in  their  boat,  the  pirates  flung  her  into  the 
sea,  and  as  she  came  to  the  surface  and  clutched  the 
gunwale  they  hewed  at  her  hands  with  cutlasses. 
She  was  heard  to  cry,  "  Lord,  save  me  !  Mercy  ! 
O,  Lord  Jesus,  save  me !"  Next  day  the  people 
found  her  mangled  body  on  the  rocks,  and,  with 
bitter  imprecations  at  the  worse  than  beasts  that 
had  done  this  wrong,  they  prepared  it  for  burial. 
It  was  interred  where  it  was  found,  but,  although  it 
was  committed  to  the  earth  with  Christian  forms, 
for  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  the  victim's  cries  and 
appeals  were  repeated,  on  each  anniversary  of  the 
crime,  with  such  distinctness  as  to  affright  all  who 
heard  them — and  most  of  the  citizens  of  Marble- 
head  claimed  to  be  of  that  number. 


3'3 


Myths  and  Legends 

AGNES  SURRIAGE 

WHEN,  in  1742,  Sir  Henry  Frankland,  col- 
lector of  the  port  of  Boston,  went  to 
Marblehead  to  inquire  into  the  smuggling  that  was 
pretty  boldly  carried  on,  he  put  up  at  the  Fountain 
Inn.  As  he  entered  that  hostelry  a  barefooted  girl, 
of  sixteen,  who  was  scrubbing  the  floor,  looked  at 
him.  The  young  man  was  handsome,  well  dressed, 
gallant  in  bearing,  while  Agnes  Surriage,  maid  of  all 
work,  was  of  good  figure,  beautiful  face,  and  modest 
demeanor.  Sir  Henry  tossed  out  a  coin,  bidding  her 
to  buy  shoes  with  it,  and  passed  to  his  room.  But 
the  image  of  Agnes  rose  constantly  before  him.  He 
sought  her  company,  found  her  of  ready  intelligence 
for  one  unschooled,  and  shortly  after  this  visit  he 
obtained  the  consent  of  her  parents — humble  folk — 
to  take  this  wild  flower  to  the  city  and  cultivate  it. 

He  gave  her  such  an  education  as  the  time  and 
place  afforded,  dressed  her  well,  and  behaved  with 
kindness  toward  her,  while  she  repaid  this  care  with 
the  frank  bestowal  of  her  heart.  The  result  was  not 
foreseen — not  intended — but  they  became  as  man 
and  wife  without  having  wedded.  Colonial  society 
was  scandalized,  yet  the  baronet  loved  the  girl  sin- 
cerely and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  part  from  her. 
Having  occasion  to  visit  England  he  took  Agnes  with 
him  and  introduced  her  as  Lady  Frankland,  but  the 
nature  of  their  alliance  had  been  made  known  to 
his  relatives  and  they  refused  to  receive  her.  The 


NFAR    SITE  OK    FOUNTAIN    INK 


Myths  and  Legends 


AGNES   Sl'RRUGE 


WHEN,  in  1742,  Sir  Henry  Frankland,  col- 
lector of  the  port  of  Boston,  went  to 
Marblehead  to  inquire  into  the  smuggling  that  was 
pretty  boldly  carried  on,  he  put  up  at  the  Fountain 
Inn.  As  he  entered  that  hostelry  a  barefooted  girl, 
of  sixteen,  who  was  scrubbing  the  floor,  looked  at 
him.  The  young  man  was  handsome,  well  dressed, 
gallant  in  bearing,  while  Agnes  Surriage,  maid  of  all 
work,  was  of  good  figure,  beautiful  face,  and  modest 
demeanor.  Sir  Henry  tossed  out  a  coin,  bidding  her 
to  buy  shoes  with  it,  and  passed  to  his  room.  But 
the  image  of  Agnes  rose  constantly  before 
sought  her  company,  found  her  of  ready  in 
for  one  unschook\  it  he 

obtained  the  co  ,          jlk — 

to  take  this  wild  flower  to  the  city  and  cultivate  it. 

He  gave  her  such  an  education  as  the  time  and 
place  afforded,  dressed  her  well,  and  behaved  with 
kindness  toward  her,  while  she  repaid  this  care  with 
the  frank  bestowal  of  her  heart.  The  result  was  not 
foreseen — not  intended — but  they  became  as  man 
and  wife  without  having  wedded.  Colonial  so 
was  scandalized,  yet  the  baronet  loved  the  girl  sin- 
cerely and  could  not  be  persuaded  to  part  from  her. 
Having  occasion  to  visit  England  he  took  A^ncs  with 
him  and  introduced  her  as  Lady  Fran  the 

nature  of  their  alliance   had  been  made   known  to 
his  relatives  arttriltterwftfceti  Kn*ec*iVt  her.      The 


• 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

thought  of  a  permanent  union  with  the  girl  had  not 
yet  presented  itself  to  the  young  man.  An  aristocrat 
could  not  marry  a  commoner.  A  nobleman  might 
destroy  the  honor  of  a  girl  for  amusement,  but  it  was 
beneath  his  dignity  to  make  reparation  for  the  act. 

Sir  Henry  was  called  to  Portugal  in  1755,  and 
Agnes  went  with  him.  They  arrived  inopportunely 
in  one  respect,  though  the  sequel  showed  a  blessing 
in  the  accident ;  for  while  they  were  sojourning  in 
Lisbon  the  earthquake  occurred  that  laid  the  city  in 
ruins  and  killed  sixty  thousand  people.  Sir  Henry 
was  in  his  carriage  at  the  time  and  was  buried 
beneath  a  falling  wall,  but  Agnes,  who  had  hurried 
from  her  lodging  at  the  first  alarm,  sped  through  the 
rocking  streets  in  search  of  her  lover.  She  found  him 
at  last,  and,  instead  of  crying  or  fainting,  she  set  to 
work  to  drag  away  the  stones  and  timbers  that  were 
piled  upon  him.  Had  she  been  a  delicate  creature, 
her  lover's  equal  in  birth,  such  as  Frankland  was 
used  to  dance  with  at  the  state  balls,  she  could  not 
have  done  this,  but  her  days  of  service  at  the  inn  had 
given  her  a  strength  that  received  fresh  accessions 
from  hope  and  love.  In  an  hour  she  had  liberated 
him,  and,  carrying  him  to  a  place  of  safety,  she 
cherished  the  spark  of  life  until  health  returned. 
The  nobleman  had  received  sufficient  proof  of 
Agnes's  love  and  courage.  He  realized,  at  last,  the 
superiority  of  worth  to  birth.  He  gave  his  name, 
as  he  had  already  given  his  heart,  to  her,  and  their 
married  life  was  happy. 

3'5 


Myths  and  Legends 

SKIPPER    IRESON'S    RIDE 

"pLOOD,  FLUID,  OR  FLOYD  IRESON  (in 
JL  some  chronicles  his  name  is  Benjamin)  was 
making  for  Marblehead  in  a  furious  gale,  in  the 
autumn  of  1808,  in  the  schooner  Betsy.  Off  Cape 
Cod  he  fell  in  with  the  schooner  Active,  of  Beverly, 
in  distress,  for  she  had  been  disabled  in  the  heavy 
sea  and  was  on  her  beam  ends,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
tempest.  The  master  of  the  Active  hailed  Ireson 
and  asked  to  be  taken  off,  for  his  vessel  could  not 
last  much  longer,  but  the  Betsy,  after  a  parley,  laid 
her  course  again  homeward,  leaving  the  exhausted 
and  despairing  crew  of  the  sinking  vessel  to  shift  as 
best  they  might.  The  Betsy  had  not  been  many 
hours  in  port  before  it  was  known  that  men  were 
in  peril  in  the  bay,  and  two  crews  of  volunteers  set 
off  instantly  to  the  rescue.  But  it  was  too  late. 
The  Active  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  The 
captain  and  three  of  his  men  were  saved,  however, 
and  their  grave  accusation  against  the  Betsy's  skipper 
was  common  talk  in  Marblehead  ere  many  days. 

On  a  moonlight  night  Flood  Ireson  was  roused 
by  knocking  at  his  door.  On  opening  it  he  was 
seized  by  a  band  of  his  townsmen,  silently  hustled 
to  a  deserted  spot,  stripped,  bound,  and  coated  with 
tar  and  feathers.  At  break  of  day  he  was  pitched 
into  an  old  dory  and  dragged  along  the  roads  until 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  dropped  out,  when  he  was 
mounted  in  a  cart  and  the  procession  continued  until 
316 


Tales  of  Puritan  Land 

Salem  was  reached.  The  selectmen  of  that  town 
turned  back  the  company,  and  for  a  part  of  the  way 
home  the  cart  was  drawn  by  a  jeering  crowd  of 
fishwives.  Ireson  was  released  only  when  nature 
had  been  taxed  to  the  limit  of  endurance.  As  his 
bonds  were  cut  he  said,  quietly,  "  I  thank  you  for 
my  ride,  gentlemen,  but  you  will  live  to  regret  it." 
Some  of  the  cooler  heads  among  his  fellows  have 
believed  the  skipper  innocent  and  throw  the  blame 
for  the  abandonment  of  the  sinking  vessel  on  Ire- 
son's  mutinous  crew.  There  are  others,  the  uni- 
versal deniers,  who  believe  that  the  whole  thing  is 
fiction.  Those  people  refuse  to  believe  in  their  own 
grandfathers.  Ireson  became  moody  and  reckless 
after  this  adventure.  He  did  not  seem  to  think  it 
worth  the  attempt  to  clear  himself.  At  times  he 
seemed  trying,  by  his  aggressive  acts  and  bitter 
speeches,  to  tempt  some  hot-tempered  townsman  to 
kill  him.  He  died  after  a  severe  freezing,  having 
been  blown  to  sea — as  some  think  by  his  own  will 
— in  a  smack. 

HEARTBREAK   HILL 

THE  name  of  Heartbreak  Hill  pertains,  in  the 
earliest  records  of  Ipswich,  to  an  eminence 
in  the  middle  of  that  town  on  which  there  was  a 
large  Indian  settlement,  called  Agawam,  before  the 
white  men  settled  there  and  drove  the  inhabitants 
out.     Ere    the     English    colony    had    been    firmly 
3»7 


Myths  and  Legends 

planted  a  sailor  straying  ashore  came  among  the 
simple  natives  of  Agawam,  and  finding  their  ways 
full  of  novelty  he  lived  with  them  for  a  time. 
When  he  found  means  to  return  to  England  he  took 
with  him  the  love  of  a  maiden  of  the  tribe,  but  the 
girl  herself  he  left  behind,  comforting  her  on  his 
departure  with  an  assurance  that  before  many  moons 
he  would  return.  Months  went  by  and  extended 
into  years,  and  every  day  the  girl  climbed  Heart- 
break Hill  to  look  seaward  for  some  token  of  her 
lover.  At  last  a  ship  was  seen  trying  to  make  har- 
bor, with  a  furious  gale  running  her  close  to  shore, 
where  breakers  were  lashing  the  rocks  and  sand. 
The  girl  kept  her  station  until  the  vessel,  becoming 
unmanageable,  was  hurled  against  the  shore  and 
smashed  into  a  thousand  pieces.  As  its  timbers 
went  tossing  away  on  the  frothing  billows  a  white, 
despairing  face  was  lifted  to  hers  for  an  instant ;  then 
it  sank  and  was  seen  nevermore — her  lover's  face. 
The  "dusky  Ariadne"  wasted  fast  from  that  day, 
and  she  lies  buried  beside  the  ledge  that  was  her 
watch-tower. 


END    OF    VOLUME    I. 


3I8 


^  SOUWRN  REGIpfWt  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


